


Captured In This Light

by Moments_of_Clarity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brienne gets female friends who love her, Denial, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Humour but only if you find me funny, I blended TV and book canon and made a respect character arcs smoothie, Jaime and Brienne are the demisexual knights both Westeros and I deserve, Martin wrote Jaime as a bisexual dumbass with a honour kink and I will take full advantage of that, Mentions of Twincest, Physical slowburn but emotions are already boiling over, Poor Jaime needs to have an existential crisis or two before he can leave to join Brienne, Yearning for days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-12-21 00:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moments_of_Clarity/pseuds/Moments_of_Clarity
Summary: Jaime no longer recognises his own life. Everything he thought he knew as fact is being questioned, by himself and others. So maybe it's time he stops looking for a way to get back what he lost and instead finds what he needs to move forward.Brienne no longer recognises her own life. She keeps finding herself in unexpected places with unexpected people who make her question everything she thought she knew. So maybe it's time she stops resigning herself to dying for others and starts living for herself.Meeting again is pure chance. Everything that follows is their choice.





	1. Here Today

**Author's Note:**

> Quick warning, this story does start with the sept scene from 4.03 but it diverges immediately after the first lines of dialogue. It doesn't follow either TV or book canon. I promise no twincest sex will be appearing in this fic. Also Jaime reflects a bit on the super happy fun times that came with being part of Aerys' kingsguard and a captive of the Bloody Mummers though nothing graphic or even descriptive. 
> 
> There's plenty of dialogue from the show and books in this fic plus some narration copied verbatim from the books. Anything you recognise is not mine. 
> 
> Fun Fact: One word for group of weasels is a confusion :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Cersei have a confrontation, Jaime does a spot of lurking and there is brotherly bonding over body counts.

“I don’t want a trail. He’ll squirm himself to freedom given the chance. I want him dead. Please, Jaime, you have to. He was our son, our baby boy.” 

Maybe he is the fool his father says he is, to feel any amount of surprise that Cersei has asked him to kill their brother. It’s not as though she has ever made a secret of her hatred of Tyrion. She has railed against his continued existence for as long as he has been alive, and over the years his sweet sister has shared with her twin all the ways she hoped Tyrion would die. A fever when he was a sickly babe. A fall from his horse when he was older. Contracting a pox from one of his whores. A drunken fall down a long flight of stairs. And most recently, deep in her cups, she had expressed her disappointment that Tyrion had returned from the battle of the Blackwater with nothing more than a scratch. Jaime had pointed out it was much more grievous than a scratch and the Dowager Queen had regally told him to fuck off. 

But the sin of kinslaying left a stain not even a Lannister can make clean, worse than kingslaying in the eyes of the gods, and so Cersei has kept her poison confined to her words and out of Tyrion's wine. Until now. Now, Joffrey is dead. He had been a monster and Cersei's pride and joy and Jaime’s firstborn son and now he lies dead between them. Cersei had held him in her arms and watched the life leave his eyes and Jaime had watched the woman he loves break in ways he doubts she'll come back from. 

“Jaime.” The former queen keeps her voice low, not so far gone she is willing to shout her murderous intentions for any spies to overhear. 

“Cersei,” He chooses his next words with care, “you must know how suspicious it would appear, were Tyrion to die before his trial. There’s already more than enough speculation about this family, what do you think people will say we’re hiding if Tyrion is executed without a public trial?” 

His twin is looking at him like she finds him unbearably stupid. “What do I care for the opinions of sheep? What can theydo to us? No, that grotesque monster killed my son and I will have his head.” 

_No longer _our_ son, it seems. _

“You should care. Not too long ago those sheep rioted in the streets and ripped the High Septon limb from limb. Our cousin is still missing. All the good will the Lannisters have in this city right now has come from their love of Margaery Tyrell.” 

Even in the muted light of the sept, the malice in Cersei’s eyes clearly shines. “That little whore–“ 

“Is the reason the Lannisters still have a throne to sit Tommen on at all. The Tyrells made Joffrey tolerable. They fed a city on the brink of starvation and Lady Margaery herself would tread through the filth of Fleas Bottom to give food and toys to orphans, all with the king’s supposed blessing. She would speak of her great love for their kind and brave king and say he was doing the best he could to bring peace to a realm at war, and the smallfolk would forget that the king whom their beloved Margaery loved was the same one who had, until very recently, been using them for target practice.” 

Jaime can see Cersei’s control slipping with every word he says but she needs to hear it. “It's the truth, Cersei, please understand. The Tyrells desperately want a crown for Margaery, and for that they need us, but we need them more.” He doesn't recognise the look his sister is giving him now. It's no longer irritation or anger. It's something empty that turns her eyes to emerald ice and chills him more than her fury ever has. 

_Who are you? _He asks himself, moments before Cersei voices her own question. “What happened to you? You used to say we were the only two in the world who mattered. That you would kill every man, woman and child until you and I were the only two people left in the world.” 

He flinches, remembering that day. He _had_ said that, meant it with all his heart. But that was before he lost a year of his life as a prisoner, then his sword hand, and now there was a very real chance he will lose the brother he loves. Somehow, when he’d made his grand claim of killing anyone who stood in the way of his love for Cersei, it hadn’t occurred to him that number would include Tyrion. 

“It’s been an eventful few years,” he tries to deflect, “and I am less confident in my ability to put my sword through the heart of anyone who tells me I shouldn’t fuck my sister.” 

As always, when confronted by the loss of the once perfect symmetry shared by the twins, Cersei’s delicate nose wrinkles in disgust and her eyes narrow. “And so now you won’t even try to defend us? You came back home after all this time; with one hand and that ugly lumbering beast you jokingly call a lady–” 

“She_ is_ a woman from a noble House, what else am I to call her?” Jaime regrets the words even as they leave his mouth. He shouldn’t have interrupted Cersei, should have ignored the insult to Brienne altogether or tried to change the topic back to Tyrion or the Tyrells or the bloody weather. Instead he’s given his vindictive sister a new focus for her ire. Her knuckles have gone white from gripping the fabric draped over Joffrey’s bier and he hears it rip. So does Cersei, who releases it from her clutch and smooths it out again, taking a moment to give the corpse of her son a fleeting apologetic glance, before her scowl returns and she turns to him. 

“Kingslayer’s whore is a name I’ve heard whispered by some,” she hisses. “You should try that sweet nothing on the beast, the next time you go on one of your long walks through the godswood. It’s probably the most flattering thing the ugly cunt has ever been called.” 

His lungs seize up and his blood runs cold. It used to amuse him; the contempt Cersei had for the women who tried to flirt with him. He would never return their flirtations but still Cersei would fly into a jealous rage and at the first opportunity she would remind him with hands and mouth and cunt that he belonged to her alone. And he loved those moments because it meant the same jealousy that burned in him, whenever Robert would reach out with his clumsy, meaty hands and drunkenly grope at his queen because the serving girls were too far away, also burned in Cersei. 

He feels as far from amused as possible now. Not only had his lover turned her jealousy onto a woman who would sooner throw herself back into the bear pit of Harrenhal before she bed any Lannister, he himself would do the same to prevent any harm coming to Brienne. It wouldn’t even be the first time. 

They may have started out as captor and captive but gods help him, Jaime _likes _the wench. She is ugly and pigheaded stubborn and dour and brave and gentle and _good. _She had kept him alive during their days as fellow captives and asked nothing in return but that he keep his vow to Catelyn Stark. Plus, she is the only other living soul who knows the truth about Aerys. That isn't something he can easily dismiss, even if he is still not sure _why _he told her. So, while she remains his guest, Brienne of Tarth is also under his protection, even from his lover. 

“I have only ever loved you,” he tells Cersei, as he has countless times before. “I have only ever been with you and am only whole when we are together. I crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. What more do I need to do to convince you of that?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cersei’s hand twitch and braces himself for her slap. To his surprise she instead stays her hand and takes a few steps away from him. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?” she asks. “I told you what you can do and you just talked in circles about the Tyrells and the Imp and your whore.” Cersei has completely turned away from him now, signalling that as far as she is concerned their conversation, such as it was, is over. “Get out. I want to be alone with my son. Leave. Now.” 

And so Jaime leaves, swallowing the impulse to fling a last acidic quip at his sister in favour of seeking out Brienne of Tarth as soon as possible. 

******

Not long after Jaime and his mismatched escorts had finally arrived in Kings Landing, a small party from the Twins had come to bend the knee to the king on the Iron Throne. The leader of the party was of course named Walder and he took almost as much sadistic pleasure in spreading the story of the Red Wedding as Joffrey did in hearing it. 

Walder, the umpteenth of his name, would recount the events of that bloody night, complete with exaggerated re-enactments of the death of the Starks. New details were added or removed in each retelling but some things remained the same. Edmure Tully’s reaction to the reveal of his pretty young bride was the source of great amusement to the court. The Young Wolf being so besotted with his own wife that he failed to notice the trap closing around him. Catelyn Stark had not been blind to it; already cautious, she hadn't missed when the musicians had struck up the Rains of Castamere and all escape routes were barred. Catelyn had seen the treachery of Roose Bolton mere moments before the massacre began. Walder had not left out the part where she had slapped the leech lord, though he had framed it as the ineffectual flailing of a hysterical woman. 

Jaime had very nearly laughed upon hearing that. He had many words for Catelyn Stark but hysterical was not one of them. She may have been born a trout of Riverrun but that woman had tooth and claw enough to spare, even before she married a wolf. Through loss and death and war, Lady Catelyn had held her head high and any cracks that appeared in her amour of icy aloofness were quickly filled in again. 

During a small council meeting that had taken place while the king had been in the Kingswood either hunting or torturing small woodland creatures, Tywin had demanded the truth of things and stammering under the cold glare of Lord Lannister, Walder had told all. 

After that meeting; he had gone to find Brienne to tell her of Catelyn Stark’s last stand and the mark on Bolton’s face that had taken days to fade. She hadn't smiled but he fancied he saw a glimmer of dark satisfaction in those astonishing blue eyes. 

He did not tell Brienne the rest of it; of Catelyn’s pleas for her last living son, her blood curdling scream or that Lady Catelyn Stark had slit the throat of the very young wife of Lord Frey before she met the same fate. He did not tell her about the mutilated body of the King in the North or that her Lady’s body had been stripped and thrown into the Green Fork. He doesn’t doubt that one day she will learn the whole truth of that night, but he hopes it will be years in the future, when the wound has scarred over sufficiently enough it won't bleed anew upon hearing it. 

The Freys were currently in one of the large courtyards of the Red Keep, largely subdued for once, and watching them from the walkway above is the woman Jaime has been searching for. Brienne holds herself as stoically as ever but one look at her face and he thinks that if he were to hand her a jar of wildfire in this moment, he can’t swear she won’t throw it at the confusion of Freys below. 

Brienne is a study in contradictions, emotions tightly repressed but easily read if one bothers to look. _It's her eyes_, he thinks, _her eyes always give her away. _The problem is the average person would need a footstool to look the warrior maid in the eyes, and those that can do so rarely bother. Which, in Jaime’s humble opinion, is a shame. Even the harshest of her critics would have to admit, Brienne has truly beautiful eyes. He remembers well those eyes looking down on him in the baths at Harrenhal, very wide, very blue, and full of concern for the vile, sister-fucking Kingslayer. 

At the beginning of their journey, when she’d been leading him on a rope and calling him Kingslayer as if it were his name, she had tended to look slightly to the side of his face, as if by direct eye contact with him she would become dishonourable in turn. Only when he had delivered a particularly biting insult, usually about Renly and the worst kept secret in King’s Landing, would she turn the full force of her glare on him. A lesser man would be cowed but Ser Jaime Lannister only ever found it amusing and slightly adorable, like when one of Tommen’s kittens would attack his foot. 

She hadn’t turned away from him when at Harrenhal he had reminded her of the debt he owed her, silently urging her to use it to save herself. Either it had never even occurred to her to ask or she had weighed her choices and gone with the one that would benefit two young girls and a grieving mother, rather than one woman who few would miss. Somewhere on the road to Harrenhal, Jaime had become one of those few and he should have insisted to Bolton that Brienne come with him; offered him gold or land or swift revenge should he be denied. But he hadn’t and Brienne had called in her debt to ensure–in the only way she could–that her own oath to Catelyn Stark be fulfilled. 

For several moments, he had felt nothing, or maybe he’d been feeling so much his mind had gone numb to it. His face had heated, even as his blood had run cold. His heart had stuttered, a lump had suddenly formed in his throat and, to his horror, his eyes had grown wet. He’d plotted to kill the wench himself, since nearly the first moment he had looked up to see her broad form towering above him, and now he would be leaving her to die, a quick death if she were lucky, but luck had no place amongst the Bloody Mummers. He had said his goodbyes, and when she had called him _Ser _Jaime his heart had raced in a way it never did outside the battlefield or with Cersei. In his dreams that night, Aerys had laughed while Rhaella Targaryen screamed.

Half a day later he had turned his horse around, uncaring if Bolton’s men followed, and jumped one handed and unarmed into a bear pit. In that moment he wasn’t thinking about the sword hand that had defined him, or the family he longed to return to, or the sister-lover he would be leaving behind. All he had known was that the truest knight to walk the realm since Ser Duncan the Tall was about to needlessly die, and he, dishonourable oathbreaker that he was, could save her. So he did. 

Several hours later, when they had stopped to make camp for the night, he had avoided her gaze, afraid of what she might ask. He had no answers for her, he barely had any for himself. But he felt her eyes on him for a long time after, like the sun on the back of his neck. 

Those same eyes were now attempting to set the Freys on fire with just the heat of her glare. _If anyone can do it through sheer, stubborn force of will, it’s the wench. _

As tempting as it is to approach Brienne and assure himself that all is well, it wouldn't do for a little bird to whisper in Cersei's ear that her brother had run straight to the object of her wrath immediately after their argument. So he remains in the shadows long enough to watch the almost-queen approach Brienne, placing a gentle hand on her elbow. Margaery says something he can’t hear, and at Brienne’s sharp nod, links their arms and guides her away. A more unlikely pair Jaime can’t imagine, but somehow the two have found enough to talk about that Brienne has become a regular visitor in the section of the gardens that the Tyrells have taken over for the Queen of Thorns court. Olenna seems equal parts fascinated and delighted with Brienne; a state he can certainly relate to. 

Satisfied that she will be safe under the beady eyes of Olenna Tyrell, he leaves for the training yard in the hopes of finding something to hit as hard as his untrained left hand will allow. 

****** 

Jaime takes care to avoid both his sister and his protector for the next few days. It isn’t difficult to find reasons not to be where they are. Cersei spends her days in the Great Sept of Baelor, dismissing the condolences of the court as they arrive to pay their last respects to a king they had all hated. And now that Brienne is no longer watching over Sansa Stark from a distance, and he is no longer seeking out her company, she has nothing but idle time on her hands. 

Time she spends, from the few glimpses Jaime catches of her, with the ladies of Highgarden. When his thoughts aren’t consumed by Tyrion’s trial and Cersei’s plans and the sorry state of both the Kingsguard and his greatly diminished ability with a sword, he wonders what they talk about. He can’t see Brienne giving her opinion of the latest fashion from the Reach or gossiping about whichever lord or lady is at the heart of the current court scandal. 

Of course, given what he knows of the Queen of Thorns and the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, little enough as that is, he thinks fashion and gossip hardly consume their waking hours either. Lady Margaery would certainly understand the place such things have in the life of a highborn lady from one of the Great Houses, her sartorial choices setting the style for the ladies of court and her judgement in minor squabbles between nobles can make or break a reputation. It’s all part of gaining the title of queen, but it seems Margaery has plans beyond furthering her family’s fortunes and expanding on her charitable works. Tyrion had said to him, not long after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing, that he didn’t think Margaery and Olenna would be satisfied with anything less than the complete restructuring of Westeros. Maybe that’s where their interest in Brienne lies. Maybe they believe she has a role to play in a world ruled by the Tyrell women. The Lord Commander isn’t sure whether he’s horrified or intrigued. 

Brienne doesn’t have much to say on the topics of politics, except when it comes to her opinion on the various kings that have sat, or would have sat, or want to sit, on the Iron Throne. Robert Baratheon was a useless sack of shit (his own words but she hadn’t disagreed) Stannis Baratheon needs to burn in the deepest of the seven hells (her own words, but he hadn’t disagreed), and Renly Baratheon would have gone down as one of the greatest kings the realm had ever seen. Jaime had very valiantly _not_ rolled his eyes at that. As for the King in the North, Robb Stark had been a good king, until his mistakes had caught up with him, but Catelyn Stark would have made a better queen than her son had a king. Jaime wasn’t all that sure he disagreed with her; Robb Stark had bested him on the battlefield but lost the North by trusting the wrong man and then lost the war by marrying the wrong woman. Catelyn Stark had made her own mistakes, true, but she’d understood the necessity of keeping their allies sweet–a concept Cersei often has trouble with. 

His sister has continually rebuffed Mace Tyrell’s attempts to talk about his daughter’s uncertain position but it doesn’t matter how often she avoids the subject; the moment Joffrey is entombed Tywin Lannister will announce the union of Tommen Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell. It’s not even a sennight into the new year and already there’s been a royal wedding, a regicide and a funeral. By the moon’s turn there will be a coronation, a trail, possibly an execution, and definitely a second royal wedding. 

_And Cersei’s wedding to Loras Tyrell, if Father gets his way. Presuming Loras doesn’t come down with a fatal case of sword through the throat first, that cocksure, arrogant weed._ He had very nearly killed the Knight of Flowers at Joffrey's ill-fated wedding. His anger had not only been with what Loras had said, but also that he’d had the nerve to say it to his face. There was a time, not all too long ago, when even the Loras Tyrells of the world–full of self-importance and the misguided assurance of their own immortality–would hesitate before crossing the Kingslayer. After all, what is one little lordling to a man who would kill the very king he’d sworn to die for? But that was before he had been captured by a green boy, before his incestuous affair with Cersei had become the most widely known, yet widely ignored fact in Westeros, before he’d come back to King’s Landing over a year after leaving, with no sword hand. Even his new title as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard didn’t stay the pity or the disgust he is now subjected to daily. 

The humiliation of being continually defeated by Tyrion’s pet sellsword is only slightly more tolerable. He can’t say he enjoys Bronn’s company. He doesn’t. But the bastard is right about a few things. The first, his thrust through the Mad King’s back _had _been pretty as a picture. Second, he won’t learn to fight with his left hand if he doesn’t change how he fights. He’s at a disadvantage now, quite a large one, and he can either adapt or die. Third and last, Tyrion didn’t kill Joffrey. 

Jaime_ knows_ this but still the doubts creep in. He wouldn’t kill his nephew _but _he’d hated him. It was clumsy and unsubtle; two things Tyrion isn’t _but _maybe he’d been relying on exactly that way of thinking. He hadn’t run _but _where could he go? Maybe Tyrion had thought it was a fair trade. He would be executed but in return the realm would be rid of an unsuitable king and a monstrously cruel boy. But of the two of them, it was Jaime who had no fear of death. Even in his youth he had accepted that he could very well die in battle, though in his youthful arrogance he had thought it would take an entire army before he even tired, let alone succumbed to death. Tyrion is too fond of living to think of death as anything but an inconvenience that would come for him at the ripe old age of eighty, and even then the Stranger would need to drag him, kicking and screaming, from his bed and wine and whores and books. 

“Your brother ever tell you how I came into his service?” 

He knows Bronn is the reason he still has a brother, that he saw him back to King’s Landing relatively unharmed. Didn’t do such a good job of it once they were back in the city, in his opinion, but Podrick Payne had proven himself capable of the task. 

“You stood for him in his trial by combat at the Eyrie.” 

“Aye. But only when Lady Arryn demanded the trial take place that day. You were his first choice. He named you for his champion because he knew you would ride day and night to come fight for him. You gonna fight for him now?” 

****** 

He is relieved to find Tyrion looking as well as a man imprisoned in the cells of the Red Keep can be expected to look. Certainly he is holding up better than he would have, had his new accommodations been a few levels below them in the infamous Black Cells. 

If Jaime had been at all surprised that Cersei had demanded he kill Tyrion, his brother is only surprised she hadn’t done so his first night as a prisoner. 

“So, should I turn around and close my eyes?” 

Jaime scoffs. “If you like, though you'll look rather childish making me talk to your back like that.” 

He tries to suppress the hurt that flares at the flicker of relief in Tyrion's eyes. After all, what right does he have to feel hurt? He's hardly given his brother cause to believe that he'd choose him over Cersei. Rather the opposite. 

“You don't believe I did it?” Tyrion asks. 

“I believe that if you killed everyone who has made your life miserable… well you'd have a higher body count than I do.” 

Tyrion's smile is a grim and painful looking thing, stretching the still red scars where his nose used to be, but it's genuine. Tyrion always did have a dark sense of humour, something the Lannister brothers share. “Wouldn't that be something?” he chuckles. “Though it may very well be, the Battle of the Blackwater was not lacking in carnage.” 

Jaime tells him that it doesn't count before hurriedly turning the topic away from wildfire and back to the impending trial. “Tyrion, if you know anything about Joffrey's murder you have to confess. If you're protecting someone–like that wife of yours, for example–don't. You have no obligations to her.” 

Tyrion sighs and shakes his head, and while it's not quite the same as the glare Cersei had levelled at him in the sept; the one that told him exactly how exasperated she was with his stupidity, it's similar enough that he wants to squirm. “Dear Brother,” he says, “I know you are unfamiliar with the institute of marriage, but I would say the marriage itself is, by definition, an obligation to protect.” 

_He's not thinking of his second marriage. _Bile rises in his throat and he turns his head away, lest his too clever brother see the panic on his face. If Tyrion does notice his strange reaction, he ignores it in favour of continuing his defence of Sansa Stark. 

“And I can hardly place the blame on my wife without implicating myself. Why yes, my lords, I _do_ know for a fact Sansa Stark murdered Joffrey. How? Well, she told me of course! Why did I not tell anyone of her plans? Because I thought it would be a great laugh, to watch my nephew die and be arrested for it. Am I still laughing? Ho, ho, fucking ho.” 

Jaime scoots closer to Tyrion, resettling himself as comfortably as it's possible to get on the hard, filthy floor. Whoever is responsible for his laundry will be cursing his name, but chances are good they already do, so it all evens out in the end. He and Tyrion sit in silence for several minutes, Jaime occasionally bumping his foot into his brother's leg, a little reminder that he's not so lost in thought he has forgotten Tyrion's presence. When they were children, before he had left the Rock to squire at Crakehall, he would have an urge to spend time with his little brother and more other than not would find him in the library, absorbed in a book roughly the same size as him. If Tyrion didn't look up to acknowledge him, Jaime would sit quietly for the few minutes he could manage, before the need to run and talk caught up with him, and before leaving he would reach out with his foot and nudge Tyrion. An assurance that his older brother had been thinking about him, hadn't forgotten him, wasn't ignoring him. 

Tyrion is the one to break the silence. “The truth is I don't know who killed Joffrey. I know it wasn't me. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I believe Sansa to be innocent as well. But it doesn't matter. A thousand men could throw themselves at Cersei's feet and confess to a thousand different crimes, from Joffrey's murder to causing the Doom of Valyria, and still she would find a way to place the blame on me.” 

“Cersei w—" He doesn’t know what he’d been about to tell Tyrion. Possibly something similar to the assurances he would give Tyrion when they were children. _She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t really hate you, she’s just sad about Mother. She’ll come to love you as I do. _Even as a child, he knew they were lies. Well intentioned, but lies nonetheless. 

But whatever it was he’d been about to say is cut off by Tyrion giving a wordless, frustrated shout before standing up and violently pointing a finger at him. “_No!_ I refuse to spend my last moments with the brother who doesn’t want me dead, listening to him sing the praises of the sister who does!” 

Tyrion paces the room, his limping gait as bad as Jaime’s ever seen it, as can be expected from someone sleeping on stone and old straw for several nights. “I know you don’t see it, Jaime, you’ve never truly seen the girl she was or the woman she’s become. She’s never seen you either, not truly.” Tyrion stops pacing and stands himself directly in front of his stunned brother. “She thinks you are what she would be, had she been born a man, and you think she is what you would be had you been born a woman, and you’re both fucking idiots for thinking so. You are Jaime and she is Cersei and they are not the same fucking thing!” Tyrion is breathing heavily and Jaime isn’t breathing at all. 

_“If I were the boy, I’d be even better than you with a sword, and I’d kill anyone who told me I couldn’t do what I wanted.” Cersei is putting on his clothes and he is putting on her dress and no one can tell them apart when they do this. Cersei doesn’t want to sit indoors today and Jaime only ever wants to make his twin happy. _

_“If I were a girl, I guess I wouldn’t mind being better than you at sewing,” he says and Cersei pouts. _

_“You wouldn’t be better than me, Jaime. We’re the _same, not_ better.” _

_He almost points out that she had _just _said she would be better at the thing he loves most, but doing so would make Cersei mad and there’s nothing he hates more than making her mad._

_We are the same. One soul in two bodies. Two halves of a whole. Meant to be._

That was what he told himself while Cersei was married to Robert, what Cersei had repeated to him that night in Eel Alley. Circumstance and tradition and society may keep them apart, but nothing will ever truly separate them. They were as inevitable as the sun and the moon. 

But it would do no good to tell Tyrion that, especially now. So instead he reaches out with his remaining hand and gently pulls his brother back down to sit beside him. They sit like that until the faint sound of the evening bells reaches their ears. He squeezes Tyrion’s hand and leans over to whisper in his ear, “These won’t be our last moments together, I promise.” 

Tyrion sniffs and gives a tired nod. “Of course not, I expect to see you at my trail.” 

Jaime presses a brief kiss to his brother’s temple and leaves. Tonight, he will try to talk to Cersei again. Tomorrow...well, the armour he commissioned from Tobho Mott has been delivered, the last of his gifts for the woman who saved his life and will keep the oath they both swore to Catelyn Stark, to return her daughters home. 

Tomorrow, Brienne of Tarth leaves King’s Landing. 


	2. Gone Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne contemplates friendship, looks good in blue, gets some advice, reads some history, is given a sword (which isn't a metaphor for anything at all) and says farewell.

Brienne doesn’t know how to describe the relationship she has with Jaime. He is no longer her captive, a hostage to exchange. They are no longer fellow captives, thank the gods. She is not his protector and he is not hers. Here and now, in the strictest terms, she is his guest. But that only explains what _she_ is and not what _they_ are. 

She would never presume to call herself his friend. After all, he is Ser Jaime Lannister; Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Golden Lion, brother of the former queen. And she is Brienne the Beauty; freak of nature, ugliest maid in Westeros, her unfortunate father's only surviving child. It is a dichotomy that does not lend itself to any sort of relationship, their lives never meant to intertwine. Except they did, and now she sits in the gardens of the Red Keep in the company of Lady Margaery Tyrell and her formidable grandmother, pondering what is more than an acquaintance and less than a friend. 

She knows things about Jaime that no other living person does. It's a heavy weight that doesn't feel like a burden. She's seen him at his lowest; watched him come through it, not exactly stronger but certainly changed. She respects him; understands him in a way she would never have believed possible. For all that he can still act a complete arse, she enjoys his company. No one is more surprised at that than Brienne herself, but she does. He talks, _constantly_, and occasionally he even says things that aren’t glib. Or, they are but underneath the glibness is a morsel of truth that will make her think of something in a way that would have never occurred to her. She’s never much enjoyed having her ideals challenged, but once he had gotten past his initial if understandable hostility towards her, it had felt less like he was making fun of her and more like he was trying to prepare her for something. She finds herself looking forward to his insights, and for the first time in her life she can banter with someone without making a complete fool of herself. The words come easily with him; she isn’t constantly overthinking and missing her moment. Though she still keeps silent more often than not, while he will talk for an hour without pause. Sometimes, during her more fanciful moments, she imagines that Jaime has concealed away everything he wants to say for years, keeping the words under lock and key and waiting for the right person and the right moment to unburden himself. 

Brienne knows she is being foolish. One fever induced confession and several rants about his family hardly makes her his dearest confidant. She doesn’t have much experience with this sort of thing, is the problem. On Tarth, there had been children she'd been friendly with and whose company she looked forward to. Before she was of an age to start lessons with her septa, she would spend her days playing knights with the children of the servants of Evenfall Hall. The girls liked it best when she was the knight because she would save the damsels the quickest and they found it funny when she knocked over the boys. 

But then her lessons began and she was locked away during the daylight hours, failing at embroidery, struggling at household management, falling over while trying to curtsey and coming to the slow realisation just how little she had to offer the world. The children she had once played with drifted away, busy with their own lives and future trades. The children of her father's bannermen were few in number and largely older than her. She had nothing to offer them and they'd wanted nothing from her except her absence, which she was only too happy to provide them with. The men at Renly’s camp were so much worse. 

“... Brienne?” 

She jumps slightly and her face reddens. She's been ignoring her hosts in favour of musing on what constitutes a friendships and reliving memories she'd rather not even dwell on. _They must think me either rude or terribly dim-witted._ “Apologies, my lady. I’m afraid I’ve been distracted lately.” 

Margaery smiles sweetly. “Perfectly understandable,” she says. “The events of the past days have been–” Her smile falters, and while Brienne cannot believe the young widow genuinely grieves for Joffrey, her horror at how he died is very real. She sees it in the way Margaery will hesitate before reaching for her wine or how she'll occasionally caress her throat, as if wondering what it would feel like to be suddenly, violently, unable to breathe. Brienne could tell her. There's been many a time in her life when her body has forgotten how to breathe. 

“–upsetting.” Margaery says decisively. 

“Indeed,” the Queen of Thorns chuckles and takes a deep draft of her wine. There is none of her granddaughter’s hesitation to be found in Olenna. 

_If Lady Olenna's wine were poisoned, _Brienne muses, _she would simply refuse to die. _

“It is only natural we’re all feeling a little out of sorts,” Margaery assures her, not acknowledging her grandmother’s interruption. 

“I do, although not for my own sake,” Brienne tells the ladies. It’s not exactly a lie, she worries for several people affected by Joffrey's death. Sansa Stark, missing and hunted by the Crown. Margaery with her second marriage to end in death. Poor Tommen, the too young king. She even finds herself with a certain amount of sympathy for Cersei Lannister. The proud woman would scratch Brienne’s eyes out if she ever told her as much, but she knows the effect it can have on a parent, to outlive their child and she wouldn't wish it on anyone. 

“It has been a difficult time of late,” she admits. That much at least is no lie. “And I worry for yourself, my lady, and King Tommen, and-” 

“Ser Jaime,” Olenna says. It’s not a question. 

“S-Sansa Stark, actually. Why would you...” 

“Oh, my dear, do save your protestations for someone who will be fooled.” 

“... what?” 

“Grandmother, stop it,” Margaery admonishes, rather half-heartedly in Brienne’s opinion. 

“Oh, hush love, Grandmother's talking. I am old and soon I will be dead, I've no time to waste on delicate sensibilities.” 

_Delicate? She cannot mean me. _Margaery reaches out and lightly grasps her hand where it rests on the table. The lady's skin is smooth, soft and warm, and she wants to shake off the unfamiliar touch. _It's just Margaery; gentle and kind. She won’t hurt you. _

That sweet smile has returned to Margaery's lips. “What Grandmother means to say—” 

“Don't speak for me, child.” 

“Well don't speak over me, Grandmother.” 

For a protracted moment the two women stare at each other, locked in a silent argument with Brienne as their unwilling witness. She doesn’t understand what signal is given that ends the stand-off but whatever it is, the maid must win, as she is the one to turn back to face her while the matriarch waves a dismissive hand and relaxes into her cushioned chair. 

“When you arrived in King's Landing, no one had seen you in so long, truly we thought you were dead.” 

_Did you truly think of me at all? _The thought seems unkind to Brienne, particularly since the woman who has been–and will be again–her queen has been nothing but gracious to her, both here in King's Landing and the few times they interacted at Renly's camp. Olenna has been...something other than gracious, although not unkind. Still, the thought sticks in her mind, like the salt of the sea sticks to her skin. _What game are they playing with me? _

The men at Renly's camp had thought themselves so clever, the first who ever had a mind to make a fool of her. They thought she'd be so flattered by their attention and gifts that it would never occur to her to be suspicious. Admittedly, she hadn't thought they'd go so far as to make a bet on claiming her maidenhead; she was prepared for coldness, for mockery, for hostility. She had not thought to prepare herself for courtly wooing or kindness, which is why she had been so untrusting of it. And so, she’d rejected them, even the ones whose company she had come close to enjoying. Then Randyll Tarly had informed her of the bet and that he had so graciously put a stop to it before telling her to go home and have a few babies with whatever man would have her as a wife. Instead she had stayed and won the melee that had earned her a place in Renly’s Kingsguard. 

Margaery Tyrell wants something from her too, she has to. She doesn’t believe the younger woman means her any harm, now she has learnt the Tyrells know her to be innocent of Renly’s murder. But it’s highly doubtful the Rose of Highgarden has sought out the Maid of Tarth nearly every day since her arrival in the city based solely on the limited pleasure to be found in her company. The only thing they ever had in common is a dead king. Her only consolation is that whatever it is she is after, has nothing to do with Cersei. Margaery wouldn’t spit on Cersei if she were on fire and Cersei would push her rival off the walls of the Red Keep if she thought she could get away with it. No, she can’t imagine what the Tyrell women want with her but at least this conversation won’t reach the ears of Cersei Lannister. 

“It was a near thing,” Brienne reluctantly confesses. Margaery’s hand is still resting on hers and she gives it a quick squeeze, so delicate she can hardly feel it. 

Not for the first time she reflects on how absolutely ridiculous she must look next to the beautiful and delicate rose that is Margaery. In the mirror she is ugly enough; buck-toothed, freckled and disproportionate. Her lips too thick, jaw too square, nose a twice broken mess. Her hair is lank and colourless–no curl has ever dreamt of bouncing around her broad shoulders. She towers over most men and is broader than them as well. Instead of soft curves she has hard muscle. The sight of her sitting next to one of the most beautiful maids in Westeros must be hilarious enough to make even the gods laugh. 

Her hand spasms under Margaery’s, enough to dislodge it. The younger woman pulls her hands back with a small frown and she places her own in her lap, twisting them into the material of her tunic. 

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Margaery tells her apologetically. “We’re only curious as to what happened to you after you left with Lady Catelyn.” _After you let Renly die. _Renly’s widowdoesn’t say it but she hears it, all the time. She has failed at every vow she’s made. 

“Of course, you don’t have to tell us anything if that is what you choose,” Margaery continues after Brienne has stayed silent for long enough to make it uncomfortable. “You’re under no obligation to indulge in our petty curiosity.” 

“Bugger that,” Olenna has apparently decided that her granddaughter is no longer capable of steering this conversation in the direction _she _desires. “There’s nothing petty about my curiosity in how Jaime Lannister left King’s Landing with two hands, believing himself the Warrior made flesh, only to return a considerable amount of time later, with one less hand and a slightly more tolerable attitude. Only slightly, mind you–the man is still insufferable.” 

“I’m not… was that a question?” Brienne chokes out. She feels as if she is twelve years old again, in danger of swallowing her tongue. 

“I suppose my question is, how many times did you have to knock Ser Jaime on his golden arse before he started showing you the respect you deserve?” 

She has met many a sharp-tongued woman in her life, but none quite like Olenna Tyrell. She isn’t sure whether she admires or fears her. Probably both, as anyone with the sense the gods gave a cow would do. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she tells the elderly woman. If respect could be earned by knocking men on their arses, she'd be rich with it. The most it has ever earned her was a mercifully broken betrothal and a short-lived career as a Kingsguard. 

“Did you give him the same treatment you gave my puffed-up grandson?” Olenna asks impatiently. “I imagine you gave him all that and more. Loras sulked for a good while, after you soundly defeated him, but whatever it is you’ve done to that foolish Lannister boy has him glaring at people like he’ll run them through if he hears them imply even the slightest insult to your remarkable person.”

_It’s a shame that Olenna and Cersei hate each other so. Together, they could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms and shamed their enemies into compliance with just their cutting words. _

“Oh, Grandmother. When will you learn that old age is not an excuse for indelicacy?” Margaery chides, a slight bite to her tone. 

Brienne doesn’t know what has changed, Margaery seemed just as curious as her grandmother not a moment ago, but now she looks somewhat put out with the direction the conversation has taken. 

“Margaery, one very far away day, you will learn old age is the perfect excuse for indelicacy. I only regret that I won’t be around to gloat.” 

_Doubtful, the old thorn will outlive us all. _

It appears for once the gods are looking down on her and willing to provide her a respite. A servant approaches them at a fast pace and leans down to whisper something to Olenna, who brushes him away impatiently. “Are you trying to whisper filth in my ear? Anything you want to say can be said–out loud–in front of my granddaughter and our guest.” 

The servant flushes and steps back. “Lord Tyrell has bid me to tell you that it is almost time to leave for the daily vigil.” 

Cersei goes to her son in the Great Sept of Baelor at sunrise and remains there until sunset has long passed, but his widow is only expected to be there for an hour a day at most, until Joffrey is interred. Maybe if they had been married for longer than an afternoon, her absence might be more widely remarked on, but it would appear that the court and smallfolk alike are willing to put her lack of public grieving down to her admirable composure. 

“Oh, is that all?” Olenna sighs. “What a disappointment.” She holds out an imperious arm to the still flustered servant and he hurries to take it and assist her up. As soon as the elderly woman is vertical, she drops her arm and the servant is quick to take several paces back. “Lady Brienne, a pleasure as always. I do so hope we can continue our conversation tomorrow.” And without waiting for an answer she walks away, calling for Margaery to follow her. 

Margaery doesn’t leave straight away, smiling at her, and this time it’s a wide grin that shows her perfectly white and straight teeth. Brienne simultaneously wants to smile back and cover her mouth to hide her own crooked teeth. “I am sorry for my grandmother. But I do hope you’ve not been put off my company entirely. I’ll try to find something to keep my grandmother busy tomorrow and we can talk, just you and I.” 

“Of course, my lady,” is all she can say in reply but it must be enough for Margaery, who lightly places her hand on the other woman’s shoulder as she rises. 

“Tomorrow,” Margaery reminds her before she glides away towards the Red Keep. 

****** 

The last time she spoke with Jaime was the morning of the wedding. He had given the door a perfunctory knock and slipped into her room before she could answer, telling her he couldn’t stay long, he needed to leave soon for the pre-wedding banquet. He had just laughed when she had scolded him about his rudeness and impropriety. 

“What could we possibly have left to hide from each other?” he’d asked and she had shrugged and muttered something about maintaining appearances. 

“Well, speaking of appearances, blue is a good colour on you my lady. It goes well with your eyes.” 

Her cheeks had flamed so hot she truly feared her face might catch fire. She’d ducked her head and let her hair hide her face. “Septa Donyse had it made. Thank you for sending her to me.” 

She had tried to tell the Septa that a dress wouldn’t be necessary, that it would do her no favours, but she had just clicked her tongue and told Brienne that while Tarth was surely a beautiful place, clearly it had a complete lack of competent seamstresses who knew to sew a dress to fit the woman wearing it rather than the woman they thought should be wearing it. The end result was a dress that fit her better than any had since she was very young, and while she would still feel more comfortable in her breeches and tunics, she didn’t feel completely uncomfortable either. Someone had even embroidered the sunbursts and crescent moons of her House just below the collar. She had almost burst into tears at seeing it, knowing that someone had taken the time to look up the sigil of a minor House on an insignificant island in the Stormlands. 

She had tried to return Jaime’s compliment as best she could. “The white cloak… ” 

“...is new, but I’m sure I’ll soil it soon enough.” 

She had looked up from her feet then and back to him, half annoyed he had deliberately misunderstood her and half worried he’d truly thought she’d been about to insult him. _Again. _“That wasn’t… I was about to say it becomes you.” 

He looked impossibly handsome in his gold armour and white cloak. He always had been; but now he was no longer covered in a years’ worth of filth and had put on some of the weight he’d lost during his captivity, she was better able to see the gold of his hair and the sharp angles of his face and the green of his eyes. His missing hand didn’t detract from his beauty, although the gilded steel hand he now wore seemed ostentatious and impractical to her. 

He had thanked her and taken his leave, barely giving her time to say goodbye before his white cloak had disappeared from her sight. She’d not seen him again until the feast, and only from a distance. He was there in his official capacity as Lord Commander, so she kept her distance, not wanting to distract him. 

She had planned on paying her respects to the newlyweds then finding a quiet corner to hide herself in but Cersei Lannister had cornered her first. While King Joffrey Baratheon had been dying, Brienne had been pacing her temporary quarters, wishing for the ground to swallow her whole. 

_But you do love him. _

The worst part of it is, it’s not even true. She is not in love with him. She just _isn’t. _She will only ever love one man, one kind, handsome, charming man and it is _not_ Jaime. And though Renly may be dead, love isn’t so easily killed. It’d been impossible for him to love her back, she knows that, but she hadn’t needed him to. Renly had treated her like something more than a joke, had given her a chance to prove herself a warrior the equal of any man. How could she not have loved him? 

And it doesn’t matter what the likes of Cersei Lannister say, or what Olenna Tyrell thinks she sees. She is not in love with Jaime Lannister. 

****** 

She is preparing to spend the next day hiding in her room, and maybe the lady from Highgarden knows that; because instead of sending someone with a message to meet her in the garden, the lady seeks Brienne out herself. 

“Never fear,” Margaery says cheerfully as soon as the door is open. “I told my grandmother that my father was about to say something foolish to Tywin Lannister and she ran off to hold him back. I don’t think she believed me, but the consequences that could occur were I not lying are too great to risk for her peace of mind.” 

Brienne lets Margaery in, hardly able to tell her future queen she isn’t welcome. She looks over to the small table and the two wooden chairs that are nearly all the furniture her room has. “You wouldn’t rather sit in the gardens?” she asks, not sure how she feels about hosting a queen in her modest guest chambers. 

“No, I’m quite honestly sick of the gardens.” Instead of sitting at the table, Margaery gracefully sinks to the floor, directly in a patch of sunlight and beckons for Brienne to join her. She does, sinking to the floor with precisely none of the same grace as her guest. 

“There, that’s better. I thought we could talk; about anything you want. I would like to get to know more about you, Lady Brienne, but nothing that makes you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t need to call me that. I’m no lady.” 

Margaery looks confused, which she supposes is a nice change from the contempt those words usually get her. “Yes, you said as much at the wedding feast, but I don’t understand why you wouldn’t think so.” 

“I am… that is to say… well look at me.” Once again, she is tripping over her words, unable to form complete sentences without sounding the fool. 

“I am,” Margaery replies softly and Brienne takes a deep breath to collect herself. 

“As you can see very well, I am no one's idea of a proper lady.” 

Margaery sighs. “I’m not interested in anyone else’s ideas; I want to know yours.” 

“I’m just… not. I’m not beautiful, or delicate, or charming, I take up too much space, I look down on most men, I have three broken betrothals. I know what I am and I know what I’m not and it does me no good to pretend otherwise.” 

Both women are silent for several minutes before Margaery sighs again. “I would never presume to know your mind better than you do. But tell me honestly, if tomorrow you were to wake up and nobody cared what you look like, or that you can beat men to a pulp, or that you’d rather bow than curtsy. If they were to call you ‘my lady’ and not say it as a mockery, would you still deny it?” 

Her instinctive reaction is to say yes, she would. But it never occurred to her–when she would pray to stop growing, to become beautiful, to be charming and witty and clever–she had never thought to wish for everyone else to change instead. _She _was the problem, had always been the problem. If she were to wake up tomorrow in a world like the one Margaery had imagined... 

“No. No, I don’t think I would,” she admits. Truthfully, she would like to think of herself as a lady without feeling as if she's doing something wrong in doing so. 

“People are rarely just one thing,” Margaery says. “There are cruel knights and honourable thieves and stupid maesters. There are women who don't want to be mothers and men who don't want to be warriors. You are a lady by virtue of your birth and if you also want to be a knight,” Margaery grins mischievously, “well, I’d love to meet the person who thinks they can stop you.” 

“But people do care. And they always will.” 

“You're right. But you can't change how they feel, only how you respond to them. You can let them keep stealing away pieces of you until there's nothing left and they'll have won. Or you can take back what they've already stolen. It won't be easy, but becoming the best version of yourself rarely is.” 

Brienne doesn't think she can just stop caring–she's tried. She ignores the things people say of her, both behind her back and to her face. She has acknowledged that she will never marry for love, will likely never marry at all, because she cannot bear to bed a husband who is disgusted by her. She could handle apathy or even outright dislike but a man who would treat being her husband as a fate worse than death–as though it would be any more pleasant for her–is more she can stand, even for the sake of her duty to Tarth. She is not a proud woman but she does have her pride. Fortunately, she has an understanding and loving father, who may yet remarry and have sons aplenty.

She doesn't know how to reply to Margaery, her thoughts too unfocused. So she doesn't, and instead the future queen begins to gossip about her numerous cousins, nothing malicious, just light and silly stories, until it's time to leave for her final visit to King Joffrey's vigil. Tomorrow he will be interred. 

“And then it's on to husband number three, my sweet kitten king,” Margaery jokes as she leaves. Brienne allows herself a small smile. 

“Until tomorrow, Lady Brienne.” 

“I look forward to it, Lady Margaery.” 

She isn't lying. She is full of doubts and worries that humiliation is all that waits ahead of her, but she’s growing to like the lady that had once represented everything she could never have and never be. It's almost enough to silence the voice in her head that reminds her that fond tolerance is the best she can ever hope for. 

****** 

He summons her at dawn the next day. 

A page knocks on her door in the early hours, as she is beginning to stir. He delivers the message that Ser Jaime will be waiting for her in the White Sword Tower. It only takes Brienne minutes to get dressed and make her way across the Keep to the top of the tower that houses the members of the Kingsguard. Jaime is bent over a large book resting on a table in the center of the room. He straightens up as she enters the room, lingering by the half-opened door. “Brienne. Close the door and come here.” 

She does, keeping to the opposite side of the table to him. He doesn’t speak for several moments, simply staring up at her until she can no longer bear the silence. “Is that the White Book?” she asks before wincing. What else could it be? If he finds her question asinine, he keeps the thought to himself. 

“It is. The history of the Kingsguard and a record of the great deeds of its sworn brothers.” He sighs. “My entry is rather paltry, as Joffrey was kind enough to point out.” 

“And how many great deeds did Joffrey have to his name?” Jaime actually appears to be amused by her disparagement of the dead king but she is mortified. “I-I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry,” she hastily apologises. 

“Why ever not?” 

“Joffrey was—” 

“My king?” H cuts her off. 

“Yes.” 

He shrugs. “We have a new king now.” 

She doesn’t understand the relationship Jaime had with Joffrey, if he had one at all. His behaviour is rather cavalier for someone whose son is dead, murdered at his own wedding, but she knows him well enough by now to know he feels things deeply. Especially when it involves his family. Whatever he personally felt about Joffrey, his sister has lost her son and his own brother is about to go on trial for regicide. He's just as affected by this latest death as anyone and up close she can see how tired he looks. 

“All the same, I am sorry.” 

“Would you like to read it?” 

“Read… ” 

“The White Book, yes.” 

She hesitates before she nods. Maybe he only asked so she would stop talking about Joffrey, but how can she not take this opportunity? 

Jaime steps aside to make room for her and for several minutes she loses herself in the lives of her heroes. She doesn't read everything; the book covers all three hundred years of the Kingsguard's history and it would take hours to truly appreciate it. She doubts Jaime summoned her so she could spend the day leisurely reading the White Book. She limits himself to admiring the book itself, the beautifully coloured coat of arms on each page, the feel of the smooth pages beneath her fingers. She reads of Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall–a personal favourite of her fathers–and Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. 

And Ser Jaime Lannister. 

His entry barely fills half the page. _Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valour in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in his 15th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King’s Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the “Kingslayer.” _

Brienne wants to rip out the page, or pour ink over his entry, or strike through that cursed epithet. 

Jaime Lannister is arrogant, stubborn, impulsive, often petty and occasionally cruel. He is quick-witted, brave, mostly honest, and more honourable than he gives himself credit for. He lay with his own sister, siring her bastards and committing treason against the crown. He pushed a young boy from a window to cover up his crimes. He attacked Ned Stark and his men in the streets. He lost his sword hand to save her from rape. He came back for her. He jumped into a pit to save her from a bear, unarmed and one handed. He refused to leave again without her. He made sure she was provided for when they arrived in King’s Landing. He bared his soul to her. He saved the lives of half a million people. _How many times does someone have to do the wrong thing before they are judged irredeemable? Can one, or two, or three good deeds outweigh all the evil a person has done in their life? Who gets to decide that? _All she has is questions and she doubts anyone has the answers. 

“Twenty years of peace doesn’t leave many opportunities for noble deeds,” Brienne says carefully. 

Jaime dismisses her weak attempt at a platitude with a scoff. “We’ve been at war for, what, two years now? I got captured–twice–and got my hand cut off. Hardly a tale to astonish.” 

“You saved me. Twice.” 

He gives her a small grin. “I suppose I did. And when I get around to writing out the whole sorry tale, I'll be sure to mention the part where you refused to get behind me and kept putting yourself between a pissed off bear and the man who was trying to rescue you from it.” 

“You were unarmed.” 

“You had a tourney sword.” 

“Still more than you had.” 

“I had several men who needed us alive if they wanted to get paid.” 

“You. They needed _you_ alive.” 

“We were in that bear pit together, wench, either both of us were getting out or neither of us.” 

“_Fine!_” she concedes. “Tell the tale however you like. Just be sure to mention that I was the one who saved you from becoming the first Lannister to drown in his bath.”

He laughs then, loud and genuine and her stomach flips at the sound. “And to think, I once thought you incapable of humour. I like you like this. Your dour silences have become almost endearing to me but I’ll definitely miss this more.” 

“Oh.” She’d known this moment was inevitable but she had expected a bit more warning. “Am I to leave now?” 

“Yes. Tyrion’s trial is in a few days and my sister is determined to have his head on her mantle.” 

“You do not believe he did it.” 

He gives her a hard smile. “See, wench? We know each other too well. No, Sansa Stark killed Joffrey and Tyrion is having a fit of gallantry. He gets those from time to time and this one will cost him his head.” 

Brienne shakes her head firmly. “No, I can’t believe that gentle girl capable of murder,” she says vehemently. 

Jaime chuckles darkly. “You didn’t get to have a single conversation with the child. But I didn’t bring you here to watch you read or listen to you bleat about poor innocent Sansa Stark.” He picks up a sword from a display stand that she had given no notice to before now. “Brienne of Tarth, I have a gift for you.” 

She reaches for the sword that was obviously forged for a Lannister. Gold and rubies flash in the sunlight. The pommel is that of a lion’s head, because of course it is. The blade is rippled black with ribbons of blood red that shine in the light. She cautiously wraps her hand around the grip. No sword has ever fitted her hand so well. 

“This is Valyrian steel. I’ve never seen such colours.” 

“Nor I.” 

She tries to hand the sword back to Jaime but he stubbornly keeps his arms behind his back. 

“This cannot be for me.”

“Admittedly my father did not have _you _in mind when he commissioned this blade, but it is wasted on me. That sword you hold is one of two blades reforged from the greatsword Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark.” Leaving her to gape at his back, Jaime walks to a stand covered by a white sheet. “We both swore to return the Stark girls to their mother. Lady Stark is dead. Arya is probably dead, too, but there's still a chance to find Sansa and get her somewhere safe. You'll be defending Ned Stark' daughter with his own steel.” 

“If you believe she killed Joffrey then why protect her? Your sister—” 

“Because Sansa Stark is my last chance for honour. I've got something else for you.” He removes the sheet, revealing a suit of armour. “I hope I got your measurements right.” 

She comes closer and examines her new armour. Clearly expensive and of exceptional make, it has a dark blue tint that reminds her of the evening sky. It's perfect. 

“There is one more thing.” 

****** 

One more thing turns out to be two horses, various supplies, and one young man named Podrick. Allegedly a squire, definitely a liability. 

“I don’t need a squire.” She has managed just fine all this time without one and Podrick seems...very sweet and earnest and she already wants to protect him from harm despite the fact he looks to be of an age to be knighted himself. But she can’t say no once Jaime explains to her that Podrick is in more danger in King’s Landing than he would be out there with her. Maybe she’ll even get used to being called ser, my lady. 

Once Podrick leaves to ready her horse, axe clutched to his chest, Jaime approaches her. “They say all the best swords have names. It would please me if you call this one Oathkeeper.” 

There it is again, the feeling of forgetting how to breathe. Life isn’t a song; Brienne knows that–gods does she know that–but she has a sword named like something from a legend, she has the armour of a true knight, she has a noble quest that includes saving a fair maid, she even has a squire that could very well be the Egg to her Ser Duncan. Although, she prefers the tale of Galladon of Morne; the Perfect Knight, so noble and brave the Maiden herself fell in love with him and gave him a magic sword, theJust Maid.

She is no knight, let alone a perfect one and Jaime is no maiden though he is oft compared to the Warrior. But she doesn't have to be perfect, she just needs to be worthy of the trust Lady Catelyn placed in her, the trust Ser Jaime places in her now. He's trusting her to help restore his honour and she cannot fail. 

“I will find Sansa and keep her safe. For her lady mother’s sake. And for yours.” 

“Goodbye, Brienne.” 

She walks away before she does something stupid, like cry or embrace him or beg him to come with her. Podrick assists her with a hand-up she doesn’t need and once he’s struggled up onto his horse, she spurs her own forward, setting the pace at a calm walk. She doesn’t try to stop herself from looking back at Jaime one last time. If this is the last time she sees him, and it very well may be, she’ll indulge herself in one last look. He is still there, too far away now for her to see his expression but she’ll carry this image with her on her quest. 

She’ll miss him. And she thinks, just maybe, he will miss her too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of stumbled at the finish line with this chapter. Anyway this note will be a bit long but I wanted to explain a few choices I made for Brienne and Jaime.  
First while I'm writing I picture G.Cs Brienne because it helps me to have a face and a voice I know act out scenes in my head. But my description of her is very much bookB. Same with NCW and Jaime.  
Second I tried to blend TVB's older age with bookB's personality. So she's aware of Renly's sexuality and more wary of the men in Renly's camp than in the book and less surprised by their intentions as a result of her few extra years but she's not (hopefully) completely cynical. I have no idea how old TVB is meant to be and I don't know if bookB has a confirmed age but it's around 20. I'm going with 27 for the purposes of this fic to keep what I think is the canon age gap between J&B  
Third, Martin himself described bookB as Sansa with a sword so I'm trying to put more of that aspect into the B of this fic.  
Fourth-Oathkeeper. I didn't mind the change they'd made with TVB naming Oathkeeper until S8 aired. But now it seems like something D&D changed to help facilitate the change from Jaime to Larry. Plus there's a twin sword to Oathkeeper that will soon be in Jaime's hand. And it'll need a new name. 
> 
> Come visit my currently very empty tumblr momentsofclarityao3 for GoT/ASOIAF/Braime stuff.


	3. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery is suspicious, Tommen seeks some advice, Tyrion goes on trial, Cersei lies and Jaime tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning about this chapter. Jaime hits peak pining over Cersei in this one. As much as I would like to be able to brush off his feelings for her, that doesn't really suit the purposes of the story I'm telling. So there will be longing, and bemoaning over the fact that things have changed between them, and him thinking about how much he loves her. There is a flashback that includes a kiss, but that's as graphic as that gets. If you want to skip all that, I don't blame you. That said there will be payoff to it and things implode between them this chapter. It's all downhill for their true love delusion from here. And I stand by what I said in the first chapter; no twincest sex scene, implied or otherwise.

Once King Joffrey’s earthly remains have been laid to rest, Cersei chooses to shut herself in her chambers with only her wine and grief for company. Jaime offers to share both with her but his sister flatly tells him no, only speaking to him to demand that Ser Osmund guard her tonight. Her message is clear as crystal; his presence is not wanted. 

He is no stranger to his lover banishing him from her presence, whether out of fear of discovery or annoyance with him for some infraction or another. She has always welcomed him back into her bed before, once her paranoia has abated or he has satisfactorily asked for forgiveness. This time is different; he will not murder his brother nor will he ask for forgiveness for refusing to do so. In the meantime, Cersei will grow more enraged the longer she is denied her vengeance, and if she learns he has armed and armoured Brienne for the purpose of keeping Sansa Stark safe, her fury will burn cities to the ground. All he can do for now is leave Cersei to her solitude and focus on Tommen. Before he can go to the young king’s side though, he has a promise to keep. 

As he was escorting Brienne to the Iron Gate, she had asked him to deliver a message to Margaery Tyrell. She had been kind to her, Brienne had explained, and asked him to pass on her gratitude and regrets that she hadn’t been able to say goodbye in person. After Joffrey had died, his widow had attached herself to Brienne’s side, the two of them spending most of their days together. He would have asked Brienne in person what she and the almost-queen had found to talk about for so long–if not for the fact he had been avoiding her in the aftermath of his confrontation with Cersei in the Sept of Baelor. 

_Kingslayer’s whore is a name I’ve heard whispered by some._

There have always been whispers that he must be fucking _someone. _After all, breaking the Kingsguard vows of chastity is a small thing compared to killing the king he swore to protect. And with his beauty, they speculate behind closed doors, how can he not be bedding a new woman every night? As though being desired by others is synonymous with desiring them in return, and being willing to act on it. Though those whispers aren’t entirely without merit. While he has always thought of his relationship with Cersei as something beyond any paltry vows, he is also aware it is a justification that only matters to him. But it’s not the substance of this particular rumour that bothers him, so much as the risk to the lady at the centre of it. People are so ready to believe the worst of him, it is only too easy for them to accept he has dishonoured a highborn lady, as if he were Robert Baratheon or Brandon Stark. For him, it will be one more sin among many and a minor one at that. For Brienne it would be her ruin and that he cannot abide. And so, he had avoided her until he had to send her away, prioritising placating his sister and protecting Brienne’s frayed reputation from any further damage over the contentment he has found in her company.

He didn’t always feel this way about her. The Maid of Tarth is a frustrating creature, with all her stubborn self-righteous ideals. There were many times when all he wanted to do was to grab her and shake some sense into her, yell at her that the world doesn’t care about her honour or loyalty or oaths. That what she believes life should be, bears no resemblance to reality and insisting otherwise will only break her spirit–if it doesn’t get her killed first. 

The wench is not a complete fool. She’s witnessed evil at the hands of men like Locke and the Bloody Mummers, saw how easy it was for Bolton to turn his cloak when given the opportunity for more power. She knows about Aerys and the fine line between what is honourable and what is right. Yet she still clings to her belief in honourable lieges and chivalrous knights and a world in which anyone cares about faceless strangers half as much as they care about themselves and their own families and interests. And for all that he, on occasion, wants Brienne to descend from her tower, he doesn’t want to drag her into the mud with the likes of him either. She deserves better. She _is _better. 

So instead he has gifted her a priceless sword, custom-made armour, and a squire-in-training; all in the hope she will prove him wrong and achieve her noble quest. He's also given her his promise that he will pass along her gratitude to the woman who had shown her a modicum of kindness in the vipers' nest that is King’s Landing. 

“Lady Margaery, a word if I may.” He catches up with the lady as she is leaving the Maidenvault. She turns at the sound of his voice, her distantly polite smile already fixed in place. 

“Ser Jaime. I wanted to speak to you myself,” she says. “About Lady Brienne.” 

“What a coincidence, for that is exactly who I am here to talk to you about. But please, you first, my lady.” 

While Margaery’s smile never slips, her gaze grows colder the longer she looks at him. “I was curious if you have seen her today. She wasn’t at the sept, which I expected. What I did not expect was for her to seemingly vanish completely from the Red Keep.” 

“Lady Brienne left King’s Landing early this morning.” He finally sees some genuine emotion on Margaery’s pretty face. She is startled, perhaps even worried at this news. 

“So suddenly? And without telling anyone?” She narrows her eyes just enough that it is noticeable but not so much that it counts as a glare. “That is quite alarming. Almost suspicious.” 

_She truly cares about Brienne and not just as a temporary acquaintance. _It shouldn’t surprise him, he of all people knows how Brienne can quietly and quickly endear herself to the most unlikely of people. It’s completely unknowing and unintentional on her part and she would deny it if he ever mentioned it to her. “I assure you; Brienne is safe,” he tells the lady. “Safer than she would have been had she stayed in this city. She asked me to give you a message.” 

Margaery lifts her chin imperiously. “Very well, what is the message, ser?” 

“Brienne said she was sorry to be leaving without warning or farewell. That she greatly appreciates the kindness you showed her… ” he pauses. He had thought the wench too honest to be mysterious and yet he will admit, her message to Margaery has him intrigued. “...and she will try to take your advice to heart and take back the pieces they've stolen.” 

Now apparently satisfied that the vile Kingslayer hasn't buried her friend in a shallow grave, Margaery is once again all sweet smiles and distant eyes. “How lovely. Well, thank you Ser Jaime, if that is all.” Having gotten all she needs from him and obviously not looking to make small talk with him, she makes to walk off. 

“You know Brienne well?” He calls out against his better judgement. Margaery stops and turns back to face him, an infuriatingly knowing look in her eyes. 

“Lady Brienne is quite reticent about divulging personal information so I wouldn't say I know her well,” she says carefully. “I do like her though. And I am a good judge of character, Ser Jaime.” 

“And what judgement have you made on Brienne’s character?” 

Margaery doesn't reply for a long moment, weighing and measuring her response. The manner in which the lady stares at him takes him back all those years ago, when Ned Stark had stormed into the throne room to find him on the throne and Aerys dead at his feet. The honourable Ned Stark had found him lacking. He doesn’t know yet what Lady Margaery has found. “Brienne has walls as thick and high as Maegor’s Holdfast around her,” she finally says. “I only got a glimpse beyond them. Yet I think that if someone were allowed through them completely, they’d never want to leave.” 

This time when she leaves, he doesn’t stop her. 

****** 

The coronation of King Tommen Baratheon is mercifully brief and free of disaster. From his spot at the back of the sept, Jaime surveys the new king. Sweet, guileless, eager to please and so very young. _My son. _

He had been there when he was born, in the room with Cersei as she had toiled to bring her last child into the world. Compared to Joffrey–the babe that had fought his mother during every step of the process–Tommen had been an easy birth. Still painful, still long, but his second son had started life as he meant to continue; pliable and quiet. Unlike his brother and sister Tommen hadn’t come out of the womb screaming and kicking. He was silent and still and for a fraction of a second Jaime had felt his stomach plummet to his feet and Cersei’s face had twisted in pure agony. Then the newborn gave a whimpering sigh and fell asleep, breathing steadily. The maester had congratulated the queen on her even-tempered son and though she could barely lift her arms for the exhaustion, her eyes had shone with victory. She had been so beautiful that day; content and triumphant and a true queen. She is no less beautiful today but the triumph has been replaced by anger, her contentment with resignation. 

For all the years Cersei was married to Robert, he had consoled himself with his belief that when the oaf finally died–probably from choking on his own vomit in a drunken stupor–life would be simpler. He had imagined that he would have Cersei all to himself; that she would be happy and free and have no reason to turn him away ever again. He'd been so very wrong. The truth was no one had truly been prepared for the reality of the reign of King Joffrey I Baratheon. Few who knew the supposed Baratheon heir had believed he would be a good king but his cruelty and stupidity had surpassed all expectations. The vicious boy had, within days of his coronation, taken Ned Stark's head and with it any chance of peaceful negotiations with the North. Everything had spiralled out of all control after that moment. 

While he had been languishing in a cage, Cersei had been by turns trying to curb her son’s worst impulses or enabling them. More people had wanted Joffrey dead than needed him alive. Tywin had reinserted himself back into their lives and arranged Cersei’s marriage to Loras Tyrell. Stannis and Renly were both coming for their brother's crown and the Starks were winning the war. 

Now Renly and the majority of the Starks are dead but so is his firstborn son. The Tyrells are their strongest allies but their truce with Roose Bolton is tenuous at best. Stannis is lurking somewhere, licking his wounds and regrouping. And instead of holding onto his sweet sister with both hands, he is left watching her at a distance, with one mostly useless hand and an empty feeling in his chest. 

The High Septon places the crown on Tommen's head and the crowd cheers and chants, “Long may he reign!” 

He tries to respond in kind but the words get stuck in his throat. _How long until this king dies? _He should be horrified with himself for thinking it, but past experience tells him it is inevitable. Aerys. Robert. Joffrey. All dead and none of them from natural causes. Perhaps, if Tommen is very lucky, he will rule for several years before succumbing to the violent end reserved for all kings under the dubious protection of Ser Jaime Lannister. 

Aerys had deserved to die and while sometimes he wishes the responsibility could have fallen to anyone else, he has never, not for a moment, regretted doing what needed to be done. Robert had been useless as a king, a husband, and a father. His own brothers had possibly mourned him for a full minute before moving on to trying to kill each other. Joffrey–it had been horrifying to watch Joffrey die, helpless to do anything except bear witness to his painful death. But once the shock had faded, he had not felt any of the emotions a man who had just lost his son _should_ feel. If, on occasion he feels a twinge of pain, it is only because he sees Cersei in her grief or remembers Tyrion as he saw him last. Maybe he is the monster people claim him to be, to be so unaffected by the death of the boy who was son, nephew and king combined. _Though if I am a monster, then Joffrey was something altogether worse. A reflection of the worst parts of everyone who had a hand in creating and raising him. _It's for that reason he cannot find it in himself to shed a tear for him. 

Tommen is different. He doesn't have any more of a relationship with the new king than he did with Joffrey; not as an uncle and certainly not as his father. But he has time to change that now. Robert is long dead and he is sick of lies. And he thinks when–_if_–Tommen were to die, he would care. It would hurt him to lose his youngest child and not just because of what it would do to Cersei. 

It may be too late for him and Tommen to have anything but a distant and professional relationship; a Lord Commander who just also happens to be the king’s uncle. But he makes a promise to himself, as he watches the newly crowned King Tommen Baratheon exchange lingering glances with his brother’s widow, that this time he will do better. This time, if at all possible, he will prevent the inevitable. 

****** 

The night of the coronation is the first time he has scheduled himself for door duty since he officially took up his position of Lord Commander. One of the perks of being in charge is he no longer has to be subjected to standing for hours outside the bedchambers of kings unless he chooses to do so. Listening to Robert insulting Cersei behind closed doors had been infuriating but it was what he heard from Aerys and Rhaella that haunts him. He doesn't want to think about the things Joffrey had been capable of. 

Despite his distaste for the task, he wants to be the one who watches over Tommen tonight. It helps to know the worst thing he'll hear from the young king’s chamber is a yowling cat. He knocks on the door to alert Tommen to the changing of the guard and requests permission to make a sweep of the room. For his own peace of mind. Once permission is granted, he enters and takes in the sight of his youngest–and now only–son, sitting contentedly on his bed surrounded by his loyal feline court. 

Tommen grins at him. “Unc—Lord Commander.” 

“Your Grace.” He paces the room searching for anything out of place. All the while aware of Tommen's eyes on him. Once he has cleared the room of any danger, he turns back to the king. “All clear. Will that be all, Your Grace?” 

“Yes. Well… yes, that will be all, Lord Commander.” Tommen worries at his bottom lip, a gesture he remembers as something Tyrion often did as a child, before he learnt to mask his tells. It meant he wanted to say something but wasn't sure it'd be received well. 

For a moment he is torn. Tommen clearly has something he wants counsel on, but people rarely come to him for advice on anything that isn't military strategy or swordplay. It's unlikely that the king is interested in either of those things and it is highly likely he will fail spectacularly to provide any sort of comfort to him. But for Tommen's sake he fights back his insecurities and gives the boy what he can only hope is a reassuring smile. “As Lord Commander I am not just your protector but also a member of your small council. It's my job to advise you, as best I can.” 

Tommen carefully picks up the cat closest to him and cradles the ginger beast to his chest, its content purring almost drowning out his soft voice as he asks, “Do you think I'll be a good king? Grandfather says I have the right temperament for it but the truth is, I don't feel like a king.” 

_What you have is the right temperament for your grandfather to manipulate._ While true, the young king doesn't need to hear that his grandfather only cares about him for the role he will play in Tywin's golden thousand-year legacy. “You're worried about whether or not you'll be a good king, that already makes you better than several of the kings who came before you,” he says instead. It doesn't feel like enough and judging by the disappointed look on the young king's face, Tommen is far from reassured. 

“It's just that… never mind,” Tommen mumbles. Were Cersei here, she would snap at her son to speak clearly, that a king does not mumble and Lannisters only ever roar. But she isn’t here and he doesn’t think his duties as Lord Commander extend to giving lectures on proper enunciation. 

“You can tell me anything,” he gently reminds Tommen. “And I promise it won't leave this room.” 

“I don't just want to be better; I want to be _good,_” Tommen says, his words almost a plea. But he doesn’t see a difference between the two and tells Tommen as such. 

“I mean… I know Joffrey wasn’t a good king,” Tommen eyes dart around the room as though afraid the ghost of his brother will spring out from behind the curtains to berate him. “I think I can be better than him but that doesn’t mean I will be a good king.” He pauses between each sentence, head bowed and fingers twitching nervously into the fur of the cat. “And I want to be a good king. But I can't fight like Father could. I can't make people do what I want them to, like Grandfather or Mother. The people don’t love me like they do Margaery. They don't listen to me. I don’t know how to make them listen.” 

With those words, he finally understands what Tommen is trying to tell him. Robert may have been an improvement on Aerys but he had not been a good king. The only thing keeping the realm from falling into disarray during Robert’s reign was Lannister gold and Jon Arryn’s common sense. Tommen is an improvement on Joffrey but good intentions cannot make up for incompetence. 

When he had left King’s Landing in search of his brother, Tommen had been but a child; quiet and friendly with an open heart and more compassion than sense. And when he had returned, he had no reason to suspect that anything had changed in his youngest child. Despite losing the man he believed to be his father, the war engulfing the realm, and the city in a state of constant turmoil, it had seemed as though Tommen had come out the other side still blissfully ignorant of how close he’d come to having his head mounted on a spike. The king may still be a child but he is not so blind as he had believed. 

_Ever since I returned from the Riverlands it feels like all I do is doubt everything I thought I knew about my family. What else have I been wrong about?_

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you, Your Grace,” he tells him reluctantly. 

“Oh.” Tommen visibly pulls himself together and gives his father a watery smile. “That's fine, Lord Commander. I don't even know what I'm saying, really.” 

“What is it you want to say to your people?” He asks, both because he wants to know the answer and because he doesn't want Tommen to close himself off. “If you knew they were listening, what would you tell them?” 

Tommen blinks rapidly then shakes his head as if to rattle his answer loose. “I suppose I want them to know I won’t hurt them. That I don’t want to hurt them, or for them to hurt each other anymore.” 

_How did such a gentle creature come from two people like Cersei and I?_

“And why do you think they won’t listen if you tell them that?” 

Tommen shrugs. “I know everyone only sees me as a child. A child who was never meant to be king. I don’t think they’ll believe me, no matter what I say.” 

The silence that descends between them lasts for several minutes, before Jaime suddenly breaks it, making Tommen jump and drop his now disgruntled cat back onto the bed. “Do you remember the woman I arrived here with? The Lady Brienne?” 

Tommen nods. “She’s very tall.” 

He gives an undignified snort. “That she is. She’s also the bravest person I’ve ever met.” 

“Really?” Tommen asks incredulously. “I thought it would be Grandfather or maybe my father, or Ser Arthur Dayne.” 

Instead of saying what he wants, which is that Robert Baratheon should be kept out of any and all favourable comparisons to the Sword of the Morning, he just shakes his head. “It’s definitely Brienne of Tarth. And it’s not because she’s never afraid. It’s because she does brave deeds despite her fears. I’m sure she was afraid many times during our journey to King’s Landing. But I could never tell because she never let her fear stop her from doing what she needed to do to survive, and to keep me alive long enough to return to you and your mother.” 

Tommen smiles but his eyes are confused. “I’m glad she returned you to us after so long. I wish I had the chance to speak with her before she left. But what does Lady Brienne have to do with me?” 

_What indeed. _He barely knows what point he is trying to make, but it feels right and so he continues. “What I mean to say is I didn’t believe she was capable of much of anything until I witnessed it myself. If she had told me, in the earliest days of our acquaintance, that she could best me in a fight, I would have named her a liar. But I would be wrong, she did just that.” 

Tommen is wide eyed and gaping like a fish. “She did?” he gasps. 

He has to smile at the memory, though at the time it had been nothing short of humiliating. “To be fair, I wasn’t at my best, after so long in captivity and with my hands bound. But—and this will be our secret–” he waits until Tommen nods solemnly before he continues, “even in a fair fight, she would have knocked me into the dust, at least once.” He knows his superior experience would have led to his eventual victory, despite Brienne being stronger with a longer reach. But not before she made him sorry he had underestimated her. And he had been sorry, when he had realised he was losing to the big ugly dull wench that was his captor. But if he had gone all in from the beginning of their fight, he would have killed Brienne and that would have been infinitely worse than a little embarrassment. The young king looks awestruck and Jaime thinks, even without being present, Brienne of Tarth has won over another heart. 

“There are people who have already decided they know everything there is to know about you,” he tells his son. “They think they know exactly what you are and aren't capable of. Just keep making decisions that you feel are in the best interests of the realm and you'll prove them wrong.” 

“And if it's not enough?” Tommen asks, looking not so much convinced by his words as he does desperate to believe them. 

“There will always be those who doubt your abilities, who will try to make you feel small in order to feel big.” He thinks of Brienne and Tyrion; constantly having to prove themselves worthy of their own existence in a world full of people who think it's some kind of right that needs to be earned for the ones who are born different. He thinks of Tywin; who forces his family into the roles he has assigned for them and casts them off if they refuse. He thinks of Cersei; who has both been made small and made others so in return. He thinks of Tommen; living in the shadow of a legacy he doesn't understand but that he knows will eat him alive if he misses a step. 

“Don’t let them.” 

****** 

Tyrion holds his head high and keeps his gait as straight as he possibly can, daring all those who have come to watch the Imp be brought down low to laugh at him. As he watches his little brother stand tall, a soft warmth flares to life in his chest–as well as renewed anger at their father for never acknowledging just which of his three children best embody that dignified Lannister pride Tywin values so highly.

He never thought Tyrion’s trial would be a fair one. His brother has made many enemies, has few allies, and fewer still who are willing to risk the wrath of either the Hand or the Dowager Queen. But the spectacle that is the first day of witness testimonies is even more of a mockery than he had prepared himself for. 

At first there is hope; Ser Balon is the first witness called and he is adamant in his belief of Tyrion’s innocence while still being honest in his retelling of several arguments between uncle and nephew, some of which had turned violent on the part of the acting Hand. That hope quickly dies when Meryn Trant, Boros Blunt, Osmund Kettleblack and Grand Maester Pycelle all have their turn to tell of threats and violence, missing poison, and the most noble king to ever grace this undeserving world. _I should not be rolling my eyes at my dead son, _he thinks, then does so anyway. These stories paint Tyrion as a power-hungry monster who stifled Joffrey’s every attempt to govern righteously and virtuously. It really is one of the most disgusting scenes he has ever had the displeasure to witness. 

Finally, it is Cersei’s turn to take the stand. His heart skips as he takes her in, just as it has for as long as he can remember. This time though the skip is accompanied by a painful twist that steals his breath. It seems wrong to so fiercely miss someone who is close enough that he could easily reach out and touch her, but that is the position he now finds himself in. 

During his time as a prisoner, it was thoughts of Cersei that had gotten him through the long days of tedium and discomfort. For a while after his hand was taken, all he had wanted was to die; but death had eluded him and as clarity slowly returned, so too did his longing for his sister. During the last leg of his return journey home, when the doubts had begun to gnaw at him, he would construct vivid fantasies of Cersei and how she would welcome him back. The dizzying relief she would undoubtedly feel. The gentle way she would hold him, her sweet kisses and bitter tears. The rage she would express over his maiming. There had been a fleeting moment, on the day he had finally returned to her side, that he had seen the relief he’d been expecting. That had lasted only until she’d noticed his lack of sword hand and from there he had watched her take careful note of every change that the past year had wrought in him. That was when the rage had come, though it had been mostly targeted at him for his, _“complete carelessness and utter stupidity in being captured twice”_ as though he hadn’t been taken prisoner fighting in a war her son had helped start.

_I should have known better. _Cersei has never had any patience for weakness in herself and even less so in others; her gentleness reserved for her children alone. His sister seldom weeps herself, but for when she is with him and for years it has been a point of pride for him, knowing he is the only one she will let herself be that vulnerable around. If he ever tries to offer comfort unsolicited though, she will vehemently reject him. And on the rare occasions he comes to Cersei for solace, she will provide but not without letting him know–even as she allows him under her skirts–just how vexing she finds the entire business. Now, she won’t even allow him that much, turning him away. _“Everything has changed,”_ she’d told him. _“You took too long,” _she’d said, and he has no idea what that means. He has been back where he belongs for nearly two moons now and he may as well still be a thousand miles away, for all the distance between them.

He watches Cersei watch Tyrion as she delivers her testimony. She is composed and direct and her eyes give away nothing. “I will hurt you for this. A day will come when you think you are safe and happy and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth and you will know the debt is paid.” She recites the words without inflection; calm and precise. He believes she is telling the truth, if only in the broadest sense. He can easily imagine Tyrion saying something like that. He has never been one to let an insult go unanswered, even from his own family. But he tends to stick to cutting remarks and small acts of vengeance, delivering an insult so slyly that most people don’t even realise they’ve been insulted until several hours later. Public murder–and regicide at that–is something altogether unlike Tyrion. He killed Aerys, Cersei arranged Robert’s death and yet somehow it’s their younger brother on trial for killing a king. 

_I may laugh at that one day, if Tyrion comes through this with his head attached. _As things stand, it is probably unlikely, though the decision he has reluctantly made could ensure his little brother keeps his head. And who knows, maybe when he gives his father the news, he may actually see Tywin Lannister smile. 

****** 

Tywin does not smile, but he does agree to have him released from the Kingsguard much to his relief and disappointment. Relief because he’d do just about anything to ensure Tyrion lives, and disappointment that he will be leaving both the Brotherhood and the home that has been all he’s known for over twenty years. Tywin has been waiting for this moment for so long that he doesn’t even feign contemplating anything other than immediate agreement. He tells his newly regained heir exactly what is expected of him as the Lord of Casterly Rock–for that is what he will be, even with his father still living. Tywin will stay on as Hand of the King and likely spend the rest of his days in King’s Landing, giving up his power in the Westerlands in order to govern the entire realm through Tommen. He almost regrets that he will not be there to watch Tywin and Margaery wage a silent and bloodless war over who has the most influence over the young king. 

Except he may still have that opportunity, as his best laid plans very quickly turn to ashes before his eyes. 

He remembers the beautiful woman on the witness stand as the silent figure that shadowed Sansa Stark, glaring at any man who looked at her or the maid for longer than two heartbeats. Her name, as he learns, is Shae and she has a lovely voice. How unfortunate he is hearing it the first time when she is accusing his brother of murder. 

“I know he is guilty.” Her eyes dart to each person seated in front of her, the judges, the Tyrells, and last of all, Cersei. Time seems to stand still but the illusion is shattered by her next words. “He thought killing the king would win him Sansa’s love.” The murmuring of the crowd becomes an uproar and Tywin has to yell for silence so Shae can continue her testimony. “After they were married, she refused to let him in her bed. Tyrion thought killing King Joffrey would change her mind, remove the competition. And he was only too happy to do it for himself as well. He hated Joffrey. He hates the queen. He hates you, my lord.” If Tywin is at all surprised to hear this, he gives no indication. “He stole poison from the Grand Maester’s chambers to put in Joffrey’s wine.” 

“How could you possibly know all of this? Why would he reveal such plans to his wife’s maid?” Oberyn questions. 

“I wasn’t just her maid. I was his whore.” That sets off the crowd again and Mace Tyrell blusters like the fool he is, acting like he's never heard of such a concept. 

He isn't exactly surprised by this revelation. What does surprise him is the dawning knowledge that Tyrion is in love with this woman. Tyrion isn't just angry or contemptuous of Shae's condemnation of him, the way he was with Blount or Pycelle. His little brother is heartbroken, and the more Shae reveals the more obvious it becomes until Tyrion can no longer remain silent. 

“Shae. Please, don't,” he pleads and that scares him more than anything. Tyrion orders, and demands, and makes the world bend to his will with gold and sharp wit. He does not plead. 

Shae turns to stare at Tyrion and directs her next words to him. “I am a whore. Remember?” She turns back to the judges. “That was before he married Sansa. After that, all he wanted was her. And the longer she denied him, the more desperate he became.” 

Tywin leans forward slightly. “Did Sansa Stark ask Tyrion to poison Joffrey in exchange for her maidenhead?” Jaime watches as Shae’s composure slips for the first time. It’s barely noticeable but her eyes dart wildly over the panel of judges and her lips tremble. Then she straightens up and takes a deep breath. 

“No, my lord.” 

“No?” Tywin asks sceptically, going so far as to raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t know whether his father truly believes his least-favoured son murdered his least-favoured grandson but Tywin has made it clear that he doesn’t believe Sansa just coincidentally chose the moment Joffrey was dying to vanish into thin air. He is inclined to believe Sansa convinced some sympathetic soul to help her kill the king and smuggle her out of King’s Landing. Most of the realm thinks that Tyrion was that sympathetic soul but that something went wrong, and he wasn’t able to leave with his wife. Or that Sansa had made sure something went wrong so she would no longer have to be burdened with the Imp for a husband. Shae is the first he has heard suggest that it was Tyrion alone who poisoned Joffrey, and that Sansa is innocent. 

“Are you suggesting,” Mace Tyrell says, puffed up like a bullfrog, “that Sansa Stark’s disappearance is a coincidence?” He glances at Cersei. Her jaw is clenched so tightly he can almost hear her teeth grind. 

“No. But I never heard my lady say so much as a bad word against King Joffrey, let alone wish for his death.” 

Tywin stares at Shae for several long moments. If she is at all intimidated, she hides it well and were the situation different, he would find himself admiring the young woman. 

Before he can see who breaks first, Tyrion speaks up. “Father, I wish to confess. I wish...to confess.” 

The panic that surges through his body at those words is so overwhelming, he nearly falls to his knees. Tyrion was always going to be found guilty; that was in no doubt. But he was meant to be found guilty and then plead for mercy. Confessing to the murder was not part of the plan. However, Tyrion isn't confessing to poisoning Joffrey. 

“I am guilty of a far more monstrous crime. I am guilty of being a dwarf.” And he is right, he has always had to work twice as hard for half the reward but that he chose now to finally say so is only sharpening the sword that will remove his head. Tyrion tells the room he wishes he had killed Joffrey, that he wishes he could kill all of them. Then he delivers the killing blow. 

“I will not give my life for Joffrey's murder. And I know I'll get no justice here. So I will let the gods decide my fate. I demand a trial by combat.” 

****** 

Oberyn Martell is dead. He is dead and Tyrion is sentenced to die and he cannot stop seeing it. From Tyrion’s look of devastated realisation, to Cersei’s triumphant smirk and their father’s cold indifference. Ellaria’s grief-stricken scream is still echoing in his ears, a full day later. And Oberyn himself–he is no stranger to violence, has seen unspeakable things. But seeing the Mountain turn the Viper’s head into red pulp and mist disturbs him in a way he has not felt since his days of watching the pyromancers burn people alive on their king’s order. It’s inhuman. The only slightly positive thing to come from all of this is that the Mountain is not long for this world. 

He once again finds himself in the White Sword Tower, perusing the White Book. He doesn't know why; it doesn't contain anymore answers now than it did the first dozen times he went through it since his not so triumphant return. Yet he continues to read and reread the deeds of better men than he. As though this time he will find something he has missed all these years; the answer to all his problems hiding amongst the details of another's life. 

The door opens and Cersei gracefully slips into the room before closing the door. His heart makes the usual skip and he has the usual thoughts of how beautiful she is, but it feels like an effort this time. He is just so tired, and it sticks in his mind–her face when their father announced Tyrion's sentence; satisfied and vicious. 

Which is why his first words to her are a rebuke. “You won. You must be proud of yourself.” 

His sister looks around the room disinterestedly and it occurs to him then. that Cersei has never come up here before. There is a sense of wrongness to her presence here–a disconnect between the parts of his life that comprise of his lover and those of his role as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The irony–that he joined the Kingsguard _for_ Cersei–is not lost on him. 

“Brother, you say that as though I killed Oberyn Martell myself,” Cersei says. “It was the will of the gods that justice prevail.” If she is attempting to sound pious, she fails, only able to sound bored. 

“It was your will that saw Tyrion put on trial in the first place.” 

“Do not!” she shouts, before lowering her voice to an angry whisper. “Do not blame me for the fact that the Imp murdered my son.” 

“Why are you so insistent that he did this?” 

“Because he told me he would. Do you think I lied about that?” 

“He told you he was planning to kill Joffrey? In those words?” He knows he is close to provoking his sister's temper with his constant questioning of what she believes to be the facts, but in this matter he will not concede to her. 

“He said my joy would turn to ashes and the debt would be paid,” she replies. “What part of that confuses you?” 

“I just think there is another explanation, and if you weren't so blinded by your hatred of Tyrion, you would see that he was not Joffrey's only–or even his most dangerous–enemy.” 

“Oh?” Cersei's voice is laced with curiosity but the tilt of her head reminds him of a hawk just before it swoops for her prey. 

“Our family isn't short on people who want to kill us. Or maybe it wasn't motivated by hate at all but opportunity. Tommen is much more open to receiving advice on ruling than Joffrey ever was, welcomes it even. There are several people I can think of who would prefer a more malleable king on the throne.” 

The Tyrells, Littlefinger, his own father prefers Joffrey as a corpse. And though Cersei would never harm her children, she had lost control over her eldest long ago. Their new young king, on the other hand, still looks to his mother for guidance. 

“So now you agree with me that the Tyrells are scheming?” Cersei has the same look on her face that she does every time she is forced to acknowledge Margaery Tyrell's existence-disgust, distrust and outright malice. 

“I never said they weren't. Just that it was in everyone's best interest to let Margaery and Tommen wed. But we were talking about Tyrion.” He remembers then something he had all but forgotten from his time in Riverrun. “Someone has framed him before. At Riverrun, Catelyn Stark seemed convinced a Lannister had sent some padfoot to kill her son. Gave him a very distinct dagger.” 

“Yes, Tyrion asked me about that.” Cersei leaves her spot by the door and makes her way around the room, examining the sparse quarters. 

“Lady Stark certainly had the scars to prove her story.” Catelyn had shown him the scars, barely healed and bone deep. He had hated that he was impressed by the Stark woman at that moment. She'd not only fought off the man who would have murdered her son but had done so despite injuries that would have sent seasoned knights to their knees. “What do you know about it?” 

“Nothing,” Cersei says dismissively. “It could have been anyone, even Robert thought it would be kinder to put the child out of his misery. Of course, he was blind drunk at the time, the useless—” 

He cuts off his sister before she can start listing her late husband's many flaws. “Were you alone when he said that?” 

“Well he wasn't so very drunk he said this to Ned Stark's face. Yes, we were alone, us and the children.” Cersei has found the goblets and pitchers kept for visitors to the Lord Commander's quarters and she makes a noise of displeasure at finding only water. 

“The children were with you? All of them?” 

“_Yes,_ Jaime, all of them,” she answers impatiently. “Are you suggesting Myrcella sent this man with the dagger?” 

_She mocks, but she is closer to the truth than she knows. _“Not Myrcella. Joffrey.” 

His sister shakes her head. “Joffrey had nothing against the boy. Why would he want him dead?” 

“Joffrey wanted a pat on the head from the man he thought of as his father. If someone found out about it, that could be motive for Joffrey's murder.” 

Cersei approaches him; her steps light and her silk gown swaying with the movement of her hips. Slowly she reaches up and cradles his face between her hands. They haven't been this close since…it must have been the day he got his golden hand; she has barely even spoken to him face to face since their son died. Her skin is smooth and the scent of her soap surrounds him. He relaxes into her touch without conscious thought. She smiles sweetly at him and her eyes are gentle. 

“Jaime. My love,” she says softly. And in an instant her face hardens; eyes cold and smile mocking. “Don't try to be clever. It suits you ill and it's embarrassing for the both of us.” 

He brings his arms up with the intention of pushing her hands aside, but in his anger and hurt he forgets. His left hand wraps around her slim wrist but the golden one bumps ineffectually against Cersei's arm and hangs uselessly in the air. 

Cersei laughs; short and harsh, and pulls away, taking care to lightly scratch his face as she does. “I didn't come here to fight with you,” she says, turning away from him once more. “I had intended to forgive you and to share my good news with you, but it seems you'd rather—” 

“Forgive me?” He asks incredulously. “What have I done that needs your forgiveness?” 

Her face may as well be carved from stone for all the life he can see in it. “You know what.” 

He doesn't, he really doesn't but it hardly matters. He's tired, and hurt, and that sense of pervasive wrongness has returned. The fastest way to get Cersei to leave is to give her what she wants, and so he does. “I am made humble by your forgiveness, Sister. Please, tell me this news of yours.” 

Unable to detect any sarcasm in his words, Cersei gives him a regal nod. “I will no longer be forced to marry Loras Tyrell.” 

The thought of Cersei being sold off yet again and banished to Highgarden to live in misery amongst the weeds has been one of the causes of his recent sleepless nights. He is happy to hear it, happy to know he won't be losing his sister. Yet he finds the sudden change of plans unsettling. And surprises have not worked out too well for him recently. “Father was rather adamant about that marriage.” _An understatement. _“What has changed?” 

“I told him.” 

“About?” 

“Us.” 

He finds it hard to believe that Cersei–always so insistent that he not hold their children, that he not approach her in front of others, that he not appear too attentive towards her for fear of discovery–would so brazenly inform their father of the truth he'd closed his eyes to. Yet why else would their determined father change his mind if not because he has been given no alternative? “Why would you do that?” 

“Because I don't want to marry Loras Tyrell. I won't marry Loras Tyrell,” she declares, like the queen she is. “And if Father tries to trade me like cattle again, I will tell _everyone_.” Cersei tilts her head, eyes searching his face intently. “You seem distressed, my love. I thought this is what you wanted, to be together in truth.” 

_But we wouldn't be, would we? _The secret only becomes public knowledge–more so than it already is–if their father breaks his end of the…compromise. Otherwise it's the same as it always was–quick fucks in hidden rooms and not being allowed to let his gaze linger on her for more than three seconds. 

There'd been a time, before Robert and before the rebellion, when he had begged Cersei to run away with him. To Braavos or Volantis, somewhere where no one knew or cared who they were. He would get work as a sellsword and Cersei would want for nothing. 

_“A sellsword?” Cersei had said contemptuously. “Jaime, you're a knight, _my_ knight. You cannot be a common sellsword. Besides, I see how much you admire men like Arthur Dayne. If you join the Kingsguard, not only is it an honourable cause, worthy of your skill, but we can stay together.”_

_He hadn't been so sure. “How? Surely whoever Father has you marry won't be at court all the time.”_

_Cersei had smiled then, wide and joyful and he hadn't been able to resist kissing her though she’d quickly pushed him away. “Father is still the Hand and I remain at court for as long as he does. As for my marriage…well, you've heard about the difficulties Elia had with her first pregnancy. That frail Dornish whore won't survive this time, I'm sure of it. And then I will marry Rhaegar, the king cannot refuse a second time. Not when his choice proved to be such a disappointment.” _

It had only been a few days after that conversation that Cersei had come to him in that inn. But not only had Elia survived giving birth to Aegon, it wasn’t long after he had received the white cloak that Rhaegar had abducted Lyanna Stark. What had followed after that hadn’t been conducive to anyone’s grand plans. He had tried once more to convince Cersei to run, the night before her wedding to Robert. She'd unequivocally told him no and that had been the end of that. 

“Of course I am glad to hear you won't be wasted on a man like Loras, Sister,” he tells her. “That I won't be losing you.” 

His sister’s tongue darts out to wet her lips and she approaches him once more. “That’s quite a relief to hear, I was beginning to think… but never mind.” She reaches for the laces of his breeches and begins to untie them. “You're the only man I want in my bed, let me sh—” 

All he has wanted since he returned was Cersei. Well, Cersei, and for the world to start making sense again. The latter was as likely as Ned Stark reattaching his own head, and the former seemed as far out of reach as she had ever been. And now here she was. She had searched him out and she was offering herself to him, at long last. Yet he does not hesitate to brush her hands aside and tell her no. “Not here, someone will walk in.” 

The truth is, it is not the living that he worries about, not entirely. Here was where he sat amongst legends such as Arthur Dayne, Prince Lewyn Martell, and his former Lord Commander; Ser Gerold Hightower. Here he had sat– the youngest member of the Kingsguard in history–and had been told what was expected of him as a Sworn Brother. Obey. Protect. Defend. Keep your mouth shut and eyes turned away. What would they think of him now; kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honour? What would they think of him breaking another oath in the place that is meant to represent everything the Kingsguard is supposed to stand for? Nothing good, that is a given. Those thoughts are loud enough to drown out his desire for the only woman he has ever wanted. 

Cersei looks up at him in confusion. _Have I ever said no to her before? _He doesn’t think so. Anger replaces the confusion and she storms to the door. She doesn't leave though, turning back to face him she says, “Was it your hand or your cock that got cut off?” The venom in her voice makes him flinch. 

“But why am I surprised?” she continues. “I prayed every day for you to return to me and all I got back is this stranger.” 

“I've not changed, Cersei.” If anything, Jaime thinks he is the only one who has stayed the same. Joffrey became worse and Tommen grew up and Myrcella is betrothed and in Dorne. Tyrion went and became a man who could lead warriors into battle and survive. And as for Cersei, she barely tolerates his presence these days and half the time he is left with the impression that she would have preferred it if he had died. Maybe if Robb Stark’s direwolf had eaten him, his sister would be more inclined to remember him fondly. His life now feels like a play that he is forced to perform, except nobody has given him his lines or has even told him what the plot is. 

“_My_ Jaime wasn't afraid to protect his family,” Cersei insists. “He would have avenged Joffrey's murder and kept Tommen safe.” 

“_Gods_, for the last time; Tyrion _did not_ kill Joffrey.” 

“How can you say that? After the way he threatened me? Threatened our son?” 

_I see we're back to that. _“Threats mean nothing. He swears to me—” 

“Oh, he swears? And dwarves never lie, is that what you believe?” 

“He would not lie to me. Any more than you would.” 

Cersei finds that hilarious. Her laughter is shrill and wild and unlike anything he's heard from her before. “You great golden fool. He's lied to you a thousand times and so have I.” 

He doesn't stop her when she leaves in truth this time, slamming the door behind her. He sinks gracelessly into the nearest chair and remembers. 

_You took too long_

_We're the _same, _not better_

_One soul, two bodies_

_She’s never seen you either, not truly_

_We know each other too well _

It isn't until the sun sets that he finally stirs. With the night comes clarity, one thought rising clear and urgent above the fog of memories and doubts. 

He needs to find Varys. 

****** 

The Black Cells are as charming as he remembers and the heat from the torches placed in even intervals along the corridor barely cut through the chill of the place. The heavy door that he has been promised leads to Tyrion is the same as all the others he has come across and had it not been for the unconscious turnkey he had nearly tripped over on his way in, he would question whether Varys had played him false. There are no guards at the door itself; convenient for him but a rather embarrassing oversight for the City Guard, so he unlatches the door and waits at the threshold. 

For a moment there is no sound or movement from within and then comes Tyrion’s voice from the darkness, “Oh, get on with it, you son of a whore.”

“Is that any way to speak about our mother?” He replies, removing the torch from the sconce next to the door, and thrusting it out in front of him. Tyrion flinches from the sudden light. Once he’s gotten his bearings, his little brother turns to him with a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. 

“Are these our last moments together then, brother?” He approaches Tyrion and extends his golden hand out to him. His brother grabs hold and lifts himself upright. 

“They may be,” he tells Tyrion, and while he can’t actually feel his brother’s hand in his fake one, he can see it tremble. “But it won’t be death that separates us today. I’m rescuing you.” 

“Cersei will never forgive you for this.” he brushes off his brother’s warning with a scoff. 

“Well I don't intend to tell her I did this.” 

“She'll know it was you all the same,” Tyrion says and Jaime supposes he is right. Cersei may believe that everyone is currently her enemy, and she wouldn't even be entirely wrong in thinking so. There is no small amount of people hoping to cause her harm in whatever way they can. But he is the one with the best motivation to release Tyrion and their sister is well aware of the fact. _The things I do for love. _

“Are you suggesting you stay here in order to save me from our sisters wrath?” he jokes. That gets Tyrion to make his slow way towards the cell door. 

“After you.” They leave the cell and his heart is in his mouth, not out of fear they will be caught–though there is that too–but from the knowledge that if things work out for the best, this will be the last time he sees Tyrion. Either the plan is carried off perfectly and Tyrion lives out the remainder of his days in anonymity in the Free Cities, or someone will hunt him down and gift Cersei his head. Both scenarios ensure he never sees his brother alive again. 

“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asks. 

“Varys. He is waiting at the stairs dressed in a septon’s robe.” Tyrion gives a dry chuckle, presumably at the thought of the Spider as a man of faith. “There’s a galley waiting for you in the bay to take you to the Free Cities and Varys has agents there who will see that you do not lack for funds...but try not to be conspicuous. Cersei will send men after you, I have no doubt.” 

“Cersei, wanting me dead? How will I ever adjust to this new and upsetting concept?” They both laugh and he thinks on how wasted Tywin Lannister’s lectures on family loyalty and unity have been. he goes down on one knee and kisses him once on each cheek. 

“Thank you, Brother, for my life,” Tyrion says roughly. 

He gives him a brittle smile. “I could hardly let you die for a crime I know you're innocent of.” 

“For what it's worth,” Tyrion says, “I am sorry about Joffrey. He was a horrible child who became an even worse king, but there was a time, just after he was born, that I loved him. For several years actually, when I believed he might grow up to be the best of you rather than the worst of Cersei.” 

He cannot keep lying to his brother. His dear trusting brother, who loves him for a lie. “Tyrion… ” He chokes on his words and struggles to catch his breath. 

“Jaime? What is it?” Tyrion looks up at him in concern. He doesn’t deserve it, not his concern or his gratitude. 

“Tysha,” he whispers. 

Tyrion’s eyes widen and he takes a step back from him. “Tysha? What of her?” 

“She was no whore. Father… lied. He commanded me to lie. She was exactly what she seemed to be.” 

He can’t bring himself to look at Tyrion but from the corner of his eye he watches him process the enormity of the truth he has revealed. 

“She wasn’t… she was my _wife_.” Tyrion’s voice cracks on the last word. His stomach drops. 

“She was. And she loved you. Father told me she only married you for your gold but… I never bought her for you.” 

A stillness descends over the brothers, the calm before the storm. He wants to remind his brother that time is not on their side, that he needs to leave. Instead he keeps quiet and waits for Tyrion to act. 

“It’s funny.” Tyrion’s voice is emotionless and his mouth barely moves. “All these years I thought the woman I loved was a whore. And for all these years, you believed the whore you loved was the Maiden herself.” 

He knows that Tyrion is baiting him. He knows he should just take him to Varys and say his goodbyes and forget this ever happened, if such a thing is possible. But Cersei told him she has lied to him and Tyrion told him that neither twin truly knew the other. Maybe it’s time he had the truth of it, not because Tyrion owes it to him–he is the one who owes a debt he can never repay–but because he needs to hear it. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You poor stupid blind crippled fool.” Tyrion spits. “Must I spell every little thing out for you? Cersei is a lying whore, she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know. Do you understand now?” 

His first instinct is to deny it. Robert was the exception forced on Cersei but she would never choose to bed another man. She wouldn’t. 

_You great golden fool. He's lied to you a thousand times and so have I._

Before he can give any more thought to it, Tyrion suddenly asks, “How well do you fight left-handed?” 

“Poorly.” he answers simply. 

“Good.” Tyrion is a particularly grotesque sight in the flickering light from the flame, his nose gone and his face twisted by scars and a cruel smile. “Then we will be well matched if we should ever meet again.” 

He sighs and points in a direction past Tyrion's shoulder. “Varys is waiting for you there. Just keep walking straight and you'll find him.” He lays the torch he still holds at his brother's feet and stands up. “Stay safe. I am sorry.” With those words, he turns and walks away, not daring to look back. 

Without conscious thought his feet lead him back to his quarters in the White Sword Tower, where he collapses onto his bed. He doesn't sleep, nor does he stir–not until the sound of bells alert him to the fact that something has gone horribly wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this will be another long A/N about my thought process behind choices made in this story but it's not vital reading. 
> 
> The obvious one is Shae and why I didn't have her throw Sansa under the bus like in canon. That decision came when I was going through some old GoT posts I reblogged on tumblr, way back when. There was an interview with Sibel Kekilli, the actress who played Shae, on how she asked the writers if they could change that part because she didn't think it made sense. And it doesn't. They went out of their way to give us a Shae who would kill for Sansa, and then decided to walk it back and have Shae betray her instead. There has to be a reason for that. So I changed it to Shae telling them Sansa had nothing to do with Joffrey's murder, though that doesn't mean anyone believes her. But because Tyrion made his "confession" then, the whole thing was dropped. For now.
> 
> Adding the Tysha plotline. Tyrion needed an actual reason to go after Tywin in that moment. Tyrion has every reason to want his father dead but he's also level headed to put revenge on the backburner in order to escape in a timely fashion. In the books it wasn't just about revenge but about getting whatever answers he could about Tysha's fate, possibly his only chance to do so. Removing that element from the show makes Tyrion look uncharacteristicly impulsive and I think was done because they wanted people to forget Tywin wasn't misunderstood father of the year, just a truely terrible person.
> 
> The White Tower scene got changed because there was no way I was leaving it the way it was in TV canon. 
> 
> This chapter is really two that I combined in order to move along the King's Landing part of this story and so there are 2 Jaime POV chapters in a row rather than the 3 it would have been. I do not expect any other chapter to get this long and I hope that's the case because this was hell to write.
> 
> One last thing, I really have no idea when I'll be able to update this. RL is about to come for me hard which is why I'm posting this now instead of in a few days after my usual obsessive editing : )

**Author's Note:**

> I know my profile says the last thing I published was in 2016 but that's just the date I uploaded to this site. It's actually been six years since I wrote anything and seven since I wrote anything longer than a drabble. I lost interest in GoT earlier in season 5 but eventually I powered through seasons 5 and 6 and watched seasons 7 and 8 as they aired. Almost immediately regretted it. When your best episodes in your final season are the filler episodes, you did it wrong. So this fic, my first for this fandom, owes its existence to two things. The first is D&D's appalling writing. Congratulations guys, it takes actual effort to fuck up that bad. The second is a post on tumblr by ddagent. This story is not quite what was suggested but it's close enough and it's what inspired me to write for the first time in forever so credit where it's due.
> 
> Title comes from the song Sweet November by Sarah Blasko because I was lying to myself when I said I wouldn't use song lyrics to title this fic. 
> 
> Come visit me on my tumblr momentsofclarityao3 for all you CITL needs or blandjanet if you want more of the same thing you've probably seen on your dash 12 times today.


End file.
